


An Angel, A Demon, and a Child Saviour go to Hogwarts: Year Four

by obaewankenope (rexthranduil)



Series: Absconding with Harry verse [8]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexuality, Crossover, Crowley Was Raphael Before Falling (Good Omens), Gen, Genderfluid Character, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:15:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 37,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22250026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rexthranduil/pseuds/obaewankenope
Summary: Fourth year for Harry begins. It's kicking off with a great start. He has four adults who love him and care about his well-being, and Monty is amusing as ever. Life is definitely going to be interesting this year for all involved, not that they know that. Yet.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Sirius Black & Remus Lupin, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Series: Absconding with Harry verse [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1399645
Comments: 400
Kudos: 1486





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back! I'm finally _finally_ updating this series! We open with fourth year summer beginning. Harry deserves all the love.  
> Also, I totally did a thing with Crowley because of Gender Omens and Ace Omens because of discussion about Crowley and gender and _fuck the phobes_.
> 
> I can't reply to every individual comment because omg there's _so many_ but thank ya'll so much for them!

Having a family is still strange to Harry. Well, having a family that _loves_ him is strange. Aunt Petunia was still family after all. Like that bad smell in a bedroom is still there in your memory even after you set the room on fire.[1]

Uncle Crowley’s way of speaking is rubbing off on him. Harry grins. _Excellent_.

Although, Harry looks down at the book he’s been reading in the sunshine, Uncle Aziraphale has definitely had an influence on the Indian boy too.[2] When he lived with the Dursley’s, Harry’s interest in learning had been… _stifled_ , that’s what Uncle Aziraphale has said. Uncle Crowley had phrased it very definitely but he’d meant the same. Harry being smart with Dudley around was a recipe for disaster so Harry had been _not smart_ even if some of his teachers had seen his intelligence and commented on it at times. They’d usually said things along the lines of “is a smart boy but won’t apply himself” which, whilst definitely true, was annoying since Harry had had more to think about than just applying himself to learning some multiplications. Balancing showing his intelligence with the need to actually eat a meal a day. That sort of thing.

Harry doubts his teacher’s ever had to think about that sort of balancing when they made those comments that got him the stink-eye from Uncle Vernon and sent to the cupboard for the night without food.

Just a regular day in the life of Pre-Crowley Harry Potter.

Harry knows it’s not their fault, really. One person in charge of a class of thirty kids who all needed a lot more attention and supervision than _one person can provide_. His teachers were—mostly—just as frazzled and stressed about life as Harry was at the age of six when he received a good mark on the latest spelling test that was double digits whilst Dudley’s was single. Yeah. He can’t fault them for not realising the problem with actually praising him to his Aunt and Uncle.

He also can’t fault them for not realising that Harry was ruining his education for a _very good reason_. They’d just thought he was a Problem Child. Like Jimmy in the year below. Harry had heard them talking about Jimmy being disruptive in class and causing trouble and not bothering to do his homework. Jimmy, Harry knew, had problems with reading things because words didn’t make sense to him the way they did to everyone else. Harry had problems with his family. Jimmy had problems with words. Both of them were treated like they were being lazy and not trying on purpose.[3]

It wasn’t fair and Harry wonders if someone helped Jimmy like his Uncles helped him. He hopes so. Jimmy was one of the only kids who was nice to Harry whenever they were made to sit in the library at break because they weren’t doing their work.

Harry did the work; Dudley just destroyed or stole it but the teachers had Made Up Their Minds about Harry so it didn’t matter what he said to them about it. He figured that out in year two.

But his family now, the family Harry had _collected_ , were worth every minute of being treated like a Problem Child, like a distraction, like a _freak_ , because he was loved now and Harry knows that love is something more precious than anything people can make or buy.

Harry has money from his parents but it was their love that saved him. He has wealth but it’s the love from his Uncles, his godparents, his friends, that gives Harry a reason to live. Without them he’d just have money.

Money can’t buy him the love he has even if it might buy him some happiness. Like the newest Quidditch kit for the Irish team that’s just come out. Money can _definitely_ buy him that, Harry looks at the book grinning. It can _also_ buy him tickets to see the upcoming Quidditch Cup Final too. For his entire family. Money can’t buy Harry love but he can definitely use it to _show_ his love.

Ron will love it. He’s been raving about the Bulgarian Seeker in his letters for weeks now. Harry bets his friend will faint when Harry’s latest letter arrives with the tickets in it. The parchment beside him flutters in the light breeze and Harry looks at it, seeing the ink has dried on his potions essay. He rolls it up quickly and slips it in the bag on his other side.

All his homework is done and now he can keep reading his book.

Rincewind has just seen Death in Morpork with the Luggage. Harry wants to read what happened _after_ and with his homework done, the thirteen year old can do so without feeling guilty later when Uncle Aziraphale asks about his homework.

Which, of course, is when he gets called inside by Uncle Crowley.

“Harry!” Crowley bellows from inside the bookshop. “Come here!”

Harry wants to shout back ‘why’ because he really, really wants to read the rest of Discworld series before the end of the summer and Uncle Crowley is _not_ helping that desire. He doesn’t shout back ‘why’ however, because Uncle Aziraphale taught him manners and he wasn’t raised in a barn—both his Uncle declared that a barn would have been preferable to the Dursley’s and Harry agrees—so Harry drags himself from his comfy spot outside and trudge inside the bookshop.

“What is it, Uncle Crowley?” Harry asks the moment he sees his Uncle on the ground floor of the bookshop. His Uncle, it appears, is looking intently at a book Harry vaguely remembers seeing in _Flourish and Blotts_ the last time they went to _Diagon Alley_. Something about the book is rather strange, though Harry isn’t at all sure what it is. “What are you reading?”

Uncle Crowley looks up from the book, blinks furiously and Harry can see his pupils shrinking back to their usual thinness. Uncle Crowley doesn’t read too much because of his eyes, Harry knows, but he also knows his Uncle is as well-read as Uncle Aziraphale.

“Wanted to ask you a question,” Uncle Crowley says and Harry frowns.

Whenever Uncle Crowley wants to _just ask a question_ things tend to get out of hand _very_ quickly. Uncle Aziraphale calls it the Crowley Effect. It was accurately named.

“Okay, should I warn Uncle ‘Zira?” Harry asks and Uncle Crowley snorts.

“I’m not gonna ask you to rob a bank with me, kiddo.”

Harry says nothing. Uncle Crowley had devised an elaborate plot to steal Holy Water back in the 70s according to Uncle Aziraphale so, really, robbing a bank isn’t _that_ beyond belief at this point.

“I mean, I could, that’s possible,” Uncle Crowley says and Harry just waits for his Uncle to finish with the little plan-tangent. “Anyway, not important. Wanted to ask you about something else, no theft involved. Promise.”

Harry frowns. Somehow, he thinks, that might be worse.

“Ohhhkay...”

“I—well—I was wondering if you’d—you know—uh,” Uncle Crowley stutters and Harry realises his Uncle is rather nervous right now. “Nevermind, it’s stupid, doesn’t matter.”

Scratch that, Harry’s Uncle is _very_ nervous.

“Uncle Crowley,” Harry decides to interrupt and Uncle Crowley looks at him. “Whatever it is, I don’t think it’s stupid.”

Uncle Crowley gives him a half-smile. “Okay.”

Harry smiles at him. “Just ask me, you don’t know what I’ll say if you don’t ask, right?”

“Right. Right. Yeah.”

Uncle Crowley takes a deep breath and Harry gets that his Uncle is really nervous about something so this question is _Important._ He doesn’t know what it’s about but he promises himself he’s not going to laugh if it _is_ stupid.

“What’syouropinionofmenotbeingyourUncleanymoreandnotheingaheanymore?”

“Uh... What?”

“See, it’s stupid! Forget I asked!”

“Uncle Crowley!” Harry exclaims and Uncle Crowley freezes in the act of trying to shove his way out of the little chair he’s somehow squished himself into. “I didn’t hear what you said! You said it too fast!”

“Oh. Sorry.”

Harry smiles.

“I—uh—I guess I can slow down _a bit_ for you,” Uncle Crowley says like it’s a boon for some hero or other in a story that he’s going to talk at a human speed. Knowing Uncle Crowley, it probably is.

“I… what’s your opinion… of me not—uh—being your Uncle anymore?” Uncle Crowley asks and Harry’s whole world comes to a screeching halt.

He- Uncle Crowley doesn’t-

He doesn’t want Harry anymore.

Oh.

“I’m not really feeling it anymore, this whole gig,” Uncle Crowley continues, waving a hand at his general self. Harry numbly nods along. “Thinking I need a change. Uh—so would- would you be okay calling me Aunt instead?”

Wait. What?

Harry blinks. “Aunt?” he repeats, “you—uh—you—oh. _Oh_.”

Uncle Crowley doesn’t want to be an _Uncle_ anymore because he wants to be an _Aunt instead._

Harry can’t help it. He laughs.

“Stupid, right, yeah—” Uncle Crowley begins but Harry cuts him off by hugging him. “Oh. Uh.”

“I thought you didn’t want me anymore,” Harry says into the sleeve of unc- _Aunt_ Crowley’s coat. “I don’t care if you want to be called Uncle or Aunt because that means you still- you still—”

“Oh shit, sorry Harry, I didn’t- that’s not- I didn’t think those words through, did I?” _Aunt_ Crowley sounds sheepish and Harry just hugs _her_ tighter. “I’d never not want you anymore, Harry. I promise you that.”

“I believe you,” Harry says into Aunt Crowley’s sleeve and he takes an extra moment to just breathe before he pulls back and looks at his Aunt in the face. “And I’m fine with whatever you want to call yourself _Aunt_.”

The look on Aunt Crowley’s face is so delightful that Harry can truly believe that she used to be an angel like Uncle Aziraphale.

It’s positively _radiant_ with joy. And love.[4]

* * *

Thanks to the revelation that Sirius Black didn’t murder his parents by betraying them to Voldemort, and thanks to the fact that Remus Lupin was named a second godfather—something his parents decided to do because, as Aunt Crowley put it, _to hell with societal expectations_ —Harry has four adults who care about him and his well-being. They also tend to argue over how much Harry visits Sirius at Grimmauld Place considering the godawful state the place is in.

Harry is just happy he has adults arguing over wanting to spend time with him and not the reverse.

Aunt Crowley and Uncle Aziraphale only agree in the end for Harry to stay with Sirius and Remus under the condition that they clean out Sirius’s home. Remus, to Harry’s amusement, immediately agreed to that condition before Sirius could even open his mouth.

“I guess I’m out-numbered then,” Sirius says, and Harry can hear the amusement in his godfather’s voice even if he can’t actually _see_ him, hidden as he is by the wall Harry’s totally not hiding behind to eavesdrop.

“Is it even being out-numbered when you hate the state of Grimmauld Place more than I do?” Remus retorts and, yes, Harry _definitely_ knows Remus is as amused as Sirius. “You curse the state of the kitchen more than I do after a full moon.”

“You curse the kitchen after you’ve transformed?” Aunt Crowley asks, “it annoys you that much?”

“The wall behind the stove is black with soot, and it always ends up in my tea,” Remus answers and he sounds _aggrieved_ just thinking about it. Harry thinks the word definitely fits Remus’s tone right now, especially considering how much Remus seems to love tea.

Almost as much as Uncle Aziraphale, actually.

“A travesty,” Aunt Crowley drawls and Harry grins. “Well angel, guess we’ve got a house to clean! Can’t have Harry drinking _sooty tea_.”

Harry’s grin softens to a smile at his Aunt's tone. Although she sounds mocking, there’s a real undercurrent of tenderness in her voice. Harry loves that he can pick it up without needing to read it in her face.

“Of course, dear,” Uncle Aziraphale agrees easily. There’s a tenderness in his voice too.

It all makes Harry honestly so thankful that Aunt Crowley was there that day, years ago, and decided to interfere with Dudley’s bullying. If not for that… Harry knows he’d still be stuck with the Dursleys.

A fate he honestly considers worse than death.

“Harry you can stop eavesdropping now!” Remus calls out and Harry startles. “I can hear your heartbeat.”

“What?” Harry looks dumbly at Remus as he walks into the kitchen. Sirius, Aunt Crowley, and Uncle Aziraphale are all watching him and Remus with varying expressions. Sirius’s shows his obvious joy and enjoyment at Harry being caught by Remus. Aunt Crowley’s is her typical Look that’s coloured with amusement at his situation. Uncle Aziraphale’s is that surprised look he gets when something happens that he’s only a _little_ bit surprised by.

They all knew he was there. Not at the same moment, no, but they all figured out he was listening to them and only Remus has felt the need to call out to him.

Harry isn’t sure he should be pleased by that or annoyed. He opts instead to be confused at Remus’s statement.

“Lycan,” is Remus’s simple response and Harry blushes.

“Oh.”

Aunt Crowley’s Look becomes a Smirk. Harry blushes harder.

Remus has known he was there the moment he decided to eavesdrop. Harry wishes the ground to open up and swallow him whole, but it doesn’t—fortunately—and instead he seats himself at the table, resigning himself to being given amused looks for his embarrassment as the adults return to discussing Grimmauld Place.

It’s quickly decided that Aunt Crowley and Uncle Aziraphale will take it in turns to sort out individual rooms at Grimmauld Place until the entire house is clean and free of dark objects. Aunt Crowley takes the first visit, citing her inability to be harmed by dark objects unlike Uncle Aziraphale. Harry spends the next few days in the alternating company of his Aunt and Uncle until Sirius shows up with a wide grin on his face and drops a motorbike helmet into Harry’s lap.

“Come on!” Sirius jerks his head at the bookshop doors. “You’re spending the next week with me and Remus!”

“Your house is clean then?” Harry asks, grinning widely as he fastens the straps on the helmet. It’s not the same sort of helmet he’d expect Sirius to own—more like the kind of helmet you’d wear on a bicycle—but he has no doubt it’s charmed to protect his head more effectively than any muggle variant.

“Completely! Crowley signed off on the last room yesterday, Remus wouldn’t let me tell you until today though,” Sirius explains, jumping onto the bike and kicking it to life as Harry clambers into the sidecar.

“Why not?” Harry’s question is nearly drowned out by the roaring engine, but Sirius responds to it, so his godfather obviously still heard him.

“Had to conjure furniture!” Sirius shouts over the engine, “most of it was cursed!”

Harry nods and settles in to the sidecar as Sirius lets the bike start moving. He gradually notices his godfather opening the throttle more and more quickly until they’re blitzing their way through Soho and out toward Sirius’s townhouse. He grins widely, feeling the wind rushing past him and Harry can’t help the urge to raise his arms and let out a whoop of exhilaration.

Sirius grins at him and laughs, the sound swallowed by the noise of traffic and the speed they’re going at.

It’s not the same as flying on his broom but, for Harry, the experience is just as great.

Grimmauld Place is large and much more inviting than Harry imagines it probably was originally, especially since Sirius seems to stare at an empty space of wall in the entrance hall for a long moment before leading the way to the kitchen. Remus is sat at a well-worn, oak-wood table that has bench seats instead of individual chairs, and the lycan smiles happily at Harry when he enters the kitchen.

“Hello Harry,” Remus says, rising to his feet and giving Harry a hug when Harry raises a hand in greeting. The hug is a little unexpected for Remus, but Harry goes with it and can’t help but savor the feeling of affection the contact elicits. He doesn’t really get hugged enough to make up for nine years of being starved of affection.

“Hi, Remus,” Harry replies when he steps away from the lycan who smiles at him. Remus looks far more comfortable and relaxed than Harry can recall seeing him. At Hogwarts, Remus had seemed to be almost always tired and stressed out. Now he seems like he’s actually thirty-five and not sixty-five. “I bet your tea is much better now?”

Remus laughs. “Definitely,” he nods. “We’ve been conjuring furniture since your Aunt left yesterday and the sootless tea has definitely made that an easier endeavour.”

“I bet!”

“Want to see your room?” Sirius asks, handing Harry a bottle of water from the fridge-freezer that the boy has just noticed is installed in the kitchen—it looks too new to have been there before, especially since Harry knows Sirius hasn’t lived in this house in years and it probably didn’t have a fridge-freezer when he did as a teenager. Not with his parents being pureblood extremists.

“I have a room here?” Harry asks and it probably sounds stupid to Sirius and Remus, but he’s surprised by the idea. “Cool!”

“Of course, you do,” Remus says, nudging Sirius in the arm and Sirius leads the way out of the kitchen. “We’re hoping you don’t hate the furniture choices and you can choose what colours to paint the walls.”

Harry doesn’t hate the room. He loves it. The furniture is simple and clearly recent additions to the room considering the fact that Harry can feel the fresh magic on the objects. It’s great though and he says as much while Sirius and Remus watch him peruse the room. They both seem pleased at his happiness with the room, but Sirius insists that Harry needs to have things for the room and that ends up with the three of them spending the rest of the day in muggle London.

Harry likes shopping with Sirius and Remus even if he has to explain what credit-cards are to his godfather. Remus is smart enough to use cash instead of card and understands muggle currency, saving Sirius from giving the confused shop assistant double the total cost of the clothing in one shop and short-changing another in the shop with rugs and curtains and the like.

The end of their trip is that Harry has a fully kitted-out bedroom at Grimmauld Place that even has a bloody _computer_ in it—which is just bizarre since it runs on magic and Sirius banished all the cables. When Harry returns to the bookshop, he has a backpack full of some of the most random things he’d seen that Sirius had thrown into the shopping trolley the moment he’d noticed Harry looking vaguely interested in them. Explaining the contents to Aunt Crowley proves to be an exercise in pointlessness because she just keeps laughing at the rubber duck Harry pulls out. He leaves it with her at the kitchen table, smiling in amused exasperation, at her reaction.

“I forgot about her thing for ducks,” Harry mutters to himself, flopping down on his bed and staring at the ceiling.

 _“I think I should ask for a pet duck next,”_ he says, tilting his head to look at Monty curled up on his pillow, _“do you think she’d like that?”_

 _“Ducks taste good,”_ Monty replies and Harry grimaces.

 _“Not getting a pet duck then,”_ he decides, idly stroking Monty’s head and making the snake’s eyes close in blissful delight. _“Maybe a swan?”_

Monty opens his eyes. _“Evil thingssss.”_

Harry laughs.

The image of Aunt Crowley’s wings flashes in his mind. Although they were insanely large and amazingly intimidating, Harry still thinks of swans when he thinks back to the sight of them. A black swan. Uncle Aziraphale has the same sort of wings, though Aunt Crowley’s are somewhat larger, and Harry smiles.

He has the metaphysical equivalent of two swans as adopted parents. That probably makes him the ugly duckling. Harry laughs again. “Maybe I’m the pet duck.”

A little duckling with two swan parents, one dog godfather, and one lycan godfather. In this metaphor, Harry should probably pity any predators looking at him like a tasty little meal. In this metaphor, of course, pity is not afforded to those predators because it’s their own damned fault if they try and take a baby from _swans_.

* * *

* * *

[1] Or the lingering smell of someone’s particularly stinky feet long after they’ve removed their feet and shoes from your presence. Aunt Petunia is stinky feet smell.

[2] Gods help the universe. Or, more aptly, gods help the Ministry of Magic because this is a Harry Potter who definitely isn’t going to take the crap they’ll try and give him later on. Not that anyone is aware of what is going to happen except, perhaps, the one who set it all in motion with a rather arbitrary ‘I wonder what it’d be like if there was life besides myself in this empty space?’ and promptly caused absolute _chaos_ in the cosmos.

[3] There’d been _one_ teacher who hadn’t been like that with Jimmy, just one. Harry had liked her. Mrs Shield. She hadn’t stayed at the school long enough to really be any good for Harry but he still remembers her with a bit of fondness. If she’d stuck around, Harry feels that she might have done something about his Aunt and Uncle's treatment of him if he’d told her. She struck him as the sort of adult to do something and not just ignore it. Like Uncle Crowley. Although… Uncle Crowley tends to pretend he’s not that sort of adult in the first place. _I’m a demon_ , he always insists. Demons don’t do _nice things_. Uncle Crowley is more than just a demon though, even if he doesn’t like to admit it. That’s why Harry loves him.

[4] This is entirely sappy. Cry tears of love, you cowards.


	2. The Quidditch World Cup Final

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Great Scott, he’s a snake!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've worked on this for the past two days to get it done. I wanted to hit 5k before I posted. I'm short by like 300 words or so, so that works for me. We get more happening now. I hope ya'll like it.
> 
> I shouldn't have to say this but please, don't give me criticism unless I ask for it. Asking if I'd be okay with concrit is fine, but unsolicited criticism is not. In a similar vein, commenting on my fics and attempting to blame me and other authors for you not commenting because of our attitude towards criticism is... to put it rather bluntly, whiny and pathetic. We respect ourselves and our work, if you don't like that, then you need to re-evaluate your attitude toward fic writers rather than trying to blame us for you disliking us having confidence in our work.
> 
> Edit: thank you to those who noticed Footnote 4 was missing half of its words! I have no idea how that happened, but I've fixed it.  
> Edit edit: also, I do think I've fixed the footnote links but I'm using LibreOffice now instead of Microsoft since I'm on ubuntu and haven't set up an alternative yet. If it doesn't work, tell me. :)

It’s late, exceptionally so, but not so late as to be early. The time doesn’t necessarily matter but it’s something to notice. Harry can’t really see much else beyond the stars above. They seem a bit distorted however, in a way he doesn’t know how to describe. It’s a night sky so it’s not as if it’s got a lot of colour to it naturally, yet Harry is certain it’s colourless to him right now. Which is, honestly, very confusing. Somehow black has colour even when it’s dark and the way the sky looks now just _isn’t_ colourful.

The strangeness of it distracts Harry long enough that he doesn’t realise he’s somehow much, _much_ closer to the ground until the ground falls away and a wall comes very close to his face. Face. Nose. Something like that. Harry is _really_ _confused_ right now.[1] It takes him an embarrassingly long time to realise that the reason why it all feels rather strange and confusing is because Harry _isn’t Harry right now_. Whatever he is has a different form and sees things very differently to what he’s used to.

Something he really comes to realise when a blurring shape of intense light appears in his vision in a room that is muted and washed of colour except for that bright, bright spot. It’s- Harry realises suddenly that he’s seeing _heat_ and the form he’s in is serpentine.

He’s a snake.

_Great Scott, he’s a snake!_

Of course, Harry can’t really enjoy this realisation for very long because, of course, the maniac who’s been trying to kill him _forever_ is there and wants the form Harry’s in to _eat a man_. It’s fortunate that Harry’s scar hurts so much that he bolts awake, silently gasping, soaked to the skin with sweat, and gripping his wand that he remembers putting in the bedside cabinet drawer before he went to bed.

There’s light spilling out from bottom of his door which Harry uses as a focus while he tries to get his breathing back under control. His scar is still hurting—not as much as it did in the- would he call it a dream, he doesn’t quite know—and the prickling becomes easier to ignore the longer Harry focuses on just breathing. His hand hurts from the white-knuckled grip he has on his wand but it doesn’t stop him from keeping hold of his wand, the weight and feel of it a comfort to him in a way that few other things are.

A glance over to his bedside cabinet reveals the time is just after four and there’s sunlight just starting to peek its way through the night sky—twilight sky, actually, Harry remembers rather inanely, recalling Hermione and Uncle Aziraphale discussing the curvature of the earth and the suns rays in summer.[2] He’s not getting back to sleep, Harry knows that with certainty, so he doesn’t even try once his heart is calm enough that his hands aren’t shaking with adrenaline.

It’s not a real shock for Harry to stumble across Uncle Aziraphale tottering around the kitchen at four-thirty-in-the-morning—what with Uncle Aziraphale not needing to sleep like a mortal being ever—but after the whatever-it-was Harry just experienced, the shock is enough to have him jumping and his wand sparking with red sparks like a particularly angry sparkler.

“Harry! Goodness, whatever’s the matter?” Uncle Aziraphale asks, snapping his fingers and drying Harry’s clothing, ridding him of the soggy sweaty feel, and conjuring a cup of hot cocoa with whipped cream on top. “Sit down, my dear boy.”

Harry gratefully accepts the hot cocoa, not realising until he’s wrapped a hand around the mug that he’s actually rather cold despite the muggy August heat. “Thanks Uncle.” He sips the hot cocoa, leg bouncing awkwardly as he sits at the kitchen table opposite his Uncle who watches him with open concern.

“What happened, Harry?” Uncle Aziraphale asks again when Harry’s drained half the mug and finally, finally released his grip on his wand and placed it on the kitchen table. “You look—well—you look like you’d had a run-in with a garden hose.

Harry cracks a weak smile at that. His leg is still bouncing, revealing his state of mind to his Uncle who, Harry knows, is a lot more aware of the meanings of certain behaviours than he would have others first believe.

“Nightmare,” Harry answers, “I think.”

“You think?” Uncle Aziraphale frowns. “You’re not certain?”

“No, I- I don’t know.” Harry looks down at his nearly-empty mug. A snap of fingers has him looking up at his Uncle and then down at his mug, realising that the snap was his Uncle miracling it full again. “Thanks,” he says and Uncle Aziraphale nods. “It- I’ve had dreams before—nightmares—but not like this.”

“What makes this one different, Harry?” His Uncle asks, genuinely curious and perhaps a little bit worried—no, Harry knows Uncle Aziraphale is _very_ worried, the angel doesn’t seem to function unless he’s worried about _something_. “Something was different this time?”

“My scar,” Harry admits, after a long moment staring at his mug. “It hurt in the dream and that- that’s what woke me up.”

“Does it still hurt?”

Harry shakes his head as Uncle Aziraphale stands up and crosses the kitchen to place a gentle hand on Harry’s forehead. “No, it did at first when I woke up but now it’s back to normal.”

“That’s rather- hmm.”

Harry looks up at his Uncle. There’s something about his expression that tells Harry that Uncle Aziraphale has some ideas about his scar and the nightmare/dream/weird-snake-possession-thing. The expression disappears as soon as his Uncle realises Harry’s looking at him and the boy knows that whatever those ideas are, Uncle Aziraphale isn’t going to be telling Harry them right now.

In another lifetime, that sort of lack of knowledge, of not being told something possibly important about his scar, would have had Harry metaphorically frothing at the mouth. In this lifetime, however, it creates a confusing mixture of frustration at not being trusted enough and delighted joy at someone wanting to protect him so much.

Of course, that doesn’t mean Harry won’t try and press for answers later on but, for now, he’s starting to feel tired and Uncle Aziraphale is chivvying him back up to bed and telling him to sleep-in until eleven since he needs to be “well-rested for watching the Quidditch World Cup Final tomorrow” which obviously means he needs to get more sleep _now_.

Back in the kitchen, once Harry is back in bed and sleeping a guarded, dreamless sleep, Uncle Aziraphale sits with a cup of cooling cocoa beside him, frowning in worried thought about the implications of Harry’s nightmare.

* * *

“He doesn’t know it wasn’t a dream, then?” Crowley watches Aziraphale pace nervously up-and-down the length of the bookshop. Harry’s out with his godfathers at the moment, leaving the angel and demon to their own devices.

“No,,” Aziraphale says, “no, I thought it wise not to tell him,” he explains, “not when he was still shaking; I don’t think he even realised how much he was shaking, Crowley.” The angel sounds positively distraught and Crowley shifts in her slouch at the inflection. She dislikes Aziraphale sounding that upset unless she was the cause of said upset.

“We’ll have to tell him, angel, you know that right?” She points out, ignoring the way Aziraphale looks at her like she’s just suggested murdering a kitten. She’s a demon, not a monster.

“Yes, yes, but not yet!” Aziraphale waves his hands at her, still not slowing down in his pacing. “I don’t want to _worry_ _him_ when he’s seeing Hermione and Ron tomorrow- oh, don’t look at me like that, I know you don’t want him worrying either!”

Aziraphale is right but Crowley refuses to admit that she’s as determined as the angel to avoid causing Harry any further worry about this. That doesn’t mean she likes not telling Harry the truth about his not-dream. There’s enough people in Harry’s life who seem to not want him to be in-the-know and Crowley is loathe to be another one.[3]

“He deserves to know.”

Aziraphale drops down into the chair next to Crowley with a defeated sigh. “I know,” he says, “I know.” He looks at Crowley sadly, a little desperately. “Just- let’s wait until after he’s seen his friends tomorrow? I don’t- he shouldn’t have to worry about this on a happy day.”

Crowley nods. “Just so long as we tell him,” she says, reaching out and patting Aziraphale’s arm in an awkwardly affectionate manner.

Aziraphale smiles softly at her and nods. “We’ll tell him,” he promises. “We’ll tell him.”

* * *

The noise at the camp for the families and groups attending the Quidditch World Cup Final is insanely loud at the hour of day. So much so that Crowley honestly considers a muting miracle for the sake of her acute hearing. She doesn’t, but it’s a near thing. Instead, Crowley just sighs and endures it. She endures a lot of things for the people she loves.

She’s a bloody _awful_ demon.[4]

“Don’t wonder off,” Crowley tells Harry just as they cross into the part of the camp where the Irish supporters are. They’re meeting the Weasley family before heading to the pitch and Crowley already regrets agreeing. Harry’s eyes are everywhere, his head swivelling about as he tries to take in the sight of hundreds of foreign wizards performing magic they probably shouldn’t be performing out in the open.[5]

“Yes Aunt Crowley. I think I can see Ron over there!” Harry points in the direction of a plot that, Crowley can see, has several ginger-haired individuals wandering about it. Obviously Harry is right considering no one else seems to be _that_ ginger in the area.

The sound of someone bellowing the twins names confirms it.

“I do think they may be in trouble with their mother,” Aziraphale comments and Crowley snorts. Those two—Fred and George—are _always_ in trouble. It’s the reason why Crowley likes them so much; that and they’re smart. She appreciates intelligence when it’s in the pursuit of causing chaos. “I wonder what they’ve done?”

“Go ask, Molly,” Crowley says and Aziraphale glances at her. This is the first time anyone besides Aziraphale, Harry, Sirius, and Lupin will see her _like this_ and she’s nervous. Though burning swords wielded by a thousand angels wouldn’t get her to admit that fact. Aziraphale just _knows_ by looking at her.[6] “I’ll stay out here.”

“Dear—” Aziraphale begins but is cut off when Hermione and Ron both notice Harry and bellow in greeting to all three of them.

Crowley takes the opportunity to sidle up near the twins are huddled together, obviously plotting something of a prank variety, leaving Aziraphale and Harry to greet the Weasleys and Hermione. It gives the demon the chance to just observe the goings on of the gingers without them saying anything about how she is now.

She doesn’t know how they’re going to react to her no longer being _Uncle_ Crowley to Harry and, honestly, she wants to say “fuck it” and not care. Unfortunately, she’s also concerned about the impact on Harry if the Weasleys dislike her choice. The last thing she wants is for Harry to lose friends he cares about because of Crowley.[7]

Of course, thinking about it logically, if Harry’s friends and the Weasleys are bigots, perhaps it’s better for him to not be around them at all.

People can grow and learn of course, Crowley just dislikes having to be the one to teach them about this particular lesson. She’s not a learning tool for bigots, thank you very much God. She’s a demon and she’s not obligated to educate grown adults about respecting other people’s bodily autonomy.

“Aunt Crowley!”

Crowley’s head turns automatically, her golden eyes seeking out Harry from the group of Weasleys surrounding him. Aziraphale is nearby, already chattering away to Molly, but he and the Weasley matriarch both look over at Crowley when Harry calls for her.

There’s nothing really to read on Molly’s face—save a bit of surprise and confusion that’s quickly buried beneath that motherly veneer she wears all the time—but the kids all seem really confused by Harry’s call until they notice Crowley and recognise her.

“Wow!” George—it’s definitely George, Crowley just knows—exclaims, blinking rapidly as Crowley approaches. Fred is stood beside his twin and, it seems, is blushing. “You look hot, professor!”

Crowley blinks. “I’m taken.” She blinks some more. “And you’re sixteen years old while I’m six thousand years old.”

“Older women are attractive,” George quips and Crowley relaxes because, yes, that’s George’s cheeky ‘I’m-just-messing-around-to-get-a-reaction’ grin. Crowley has one just like it that she loves using on her angel. “Lots of experience; or so I’m told.”

“Wait until you’re legal before you find out,” Crowley tells him and George grins. “Your mother will try and kill me if you don’t.”

“No offence but, I think I’d really like to see how that’d go down,” Fred finally says, joining his twin in grinning at Crowley. “Like a throw-down between McGonagall and Snape. It’d be epic.”

“You ever heard of Somorrah?” Crowley asks and the twins shake their heads. “It was the third sister city to Sodom and Gomorrah.”

“What about it?”

“Those were wiped out right? Christian muggles say they were smited or something,” Fred says over his brother.

“Yep.” Crowley smirks. “Somorrah doesn’t exist in mortal records for a reason,” she explains, smirk growing, “I’m that reason.”

“Wow.” The twins look at Crowley with wide-eyes. “Definitely epic throw-down,” they say in unison and Crowley snorts.

“Bugger off,” she says, moving past the group of kids, ruffling Harry’s hair as she does, to go and stand with Aziraphale and Molly. “Your twins are obsessed with us fighting,” she tells Molly who sighs.

“Of course they are,” Molly says, shaking her head. “Arthur can deal with them this time, Aziraphale and I are comparing apple pie recipes.”

“Angel, you don’t even _cook_ ,” Crowley says, looking at Aziraphale who smiles charmingly. “The last time you tried, I literally had to take credit for setting half of the shop next to the bookshop on fire.”

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale says, ducking his head and fiddling with his sleeve. “I’m still a food enthusiast.”

Crowley laughs. “That’s a polite way of saying ‘love food so much will order three extra courses of dessert’.”

“It was toffee cheesecake, Crowley!”

“I know. You wouldn’t shut up about it for a fortnight, angel,” Crowley says fondly.

It’s typical of Aziraphale to make a situation casual by talking about food. Crowley is inordinately thankful for it; it saves her time that would otherwise have been dedicated to trying to navigate the awkward minefield of gender with people who don’t know her. Crowley isn’t quite sure how Aziraphale manages it—she suspects a few miracles judiciously applied—but she, Aziraphale, and Molly end up in the Weasleys tent, seated at the table with mugs of tea while Arthur deals with the kids outside.

It’s- it’s _nice_.

The match itself, however, is much less nice. She has to navigate foreign wizards, drunken teenage hooligan wizards, and the Malfoys trying to act all tough and intimidating when they’re really, really not. Crowley can be perfectly forgiven for smacking the Malfoy men with a demonic miracle that will see them rather regretting washing their hair tonight. Aziraphale doesn’t even pretend to be disappointed in her, so obviously the angel approves of her actions. That knowledge makes it easier to lean into the angel’s side when they’re set up in the viewing box that the British Minister for Magic is in.

Harry insists the viewing box was the only one with enough seats for the Weasleys and their trio. Probably because of the price tag attached to the seats, Crowley figures. The cost of even the regular seating is a bit exorbitant, and Crowley’s a demon so if _she_ thinks it’s a bit too much then it’s _definitely_ too much.

For a long, long, moment Crowley is sorely tempted to set all of the Veela and Leprechauns on fire when they perform their routines around the pitch. The Veela are very tempting for Ron and, to some degree, Harry. Arthur and Crowley both snag their respective sons and keep them away from the railing until the Veela stop enticing men to their deaths via swan-dive.

After that, the match is… not really Crowley’s thing. Watching people fly about on brooms and trying not to die. It’s not interesting. It’s sort of just a hyped-up football game with more balls than common sense involved. Literally and metaphorically. Harry loves it however, so Crowley pays enough attention to follow what’s happening and to not be confused later on when the match is discussed.

Harry and Ron spend the entire time gossiping about the Bulgarian seeker, Krum, as the group head back to the Weasleys tent. It’s late, nearly midnight, but the kids are all full of buzzing energy from watching the Quidditch Final, so the adults agree to having them all contained in the tent for safety. Crowley and Aziraphale are fine with spending longer with the Weasleys if it means Harry gets to spend more time with his friends. It also allows Crowley to become more comfortable and secure in the knowledge that the Weasleys aren’t overall too bothered by her change. A bit confused at first, but not bothered by it.

It bolsters her confidence and Crowley clings to it because she knows that Hogwarts will be different. There will be some who reject it, who disdain it. She knows that and waits for it. But she’s not going to be ashamed for it. Not when Aziraphale and Harry support her just by being themselves and loving her.

Of course, it’s with this realisation sinking in and securing her single spark of self-respect that the world goes to absolute shit.

Loud screams outside draw her attention, the noises standing out amongst the revelry of the Irish by the panicked pitch those screams are reaching.

“Something’s wrong.” Crowley stands from the table and swiftly crosses to the tent flap, looking out with narrowed eyes. Outside is bright with flames off in the distance, perhaps two-hundred yards away, and the silhouettes of people floating in the air above a group of black-robed figures chanting.

“Dear?”

Crowley turns to look at Aziraphale and the rest of the group. “We have a problem. All of you—” she points at the kids “—need to stay in here, including you Harry. None of you leave this tent.”

The kids immediately try to protest, each of them talking over the other, but Crowley snaps his fingers and the noise they make cuts off abruptly. The air shimmers in a bubble around them, revealing that their noise is contained within the bubble. Harry glowers at her but Crowley ignores it.

“Arthur, Molly, Charlie, Bill,” Crowley says, looking at the adult Weasleys, “get whoever you can to safety that’s injured.”

“There’s death eaters out there! What do you think you’re going to do? Walk up and make them go away?” Molly half-shouts, panic and fear in her voice. There’s anger too but it’s over-run by the fear for her family.

“Something like that. Angel,” Crowley answers, looking at Aziraphale who nods. Together they step out of the tent and immediately head towards the group of death eaters.

“Those are people, Crowley.” Aziraphale nods at the shapes floating above the group, malformed and still screaming.

“You deal with those,” Crowley says, “I’ll distract this lot of bloody fascists.”

Crowley immediately breaks out into a run, loping like a gazelle that possesses as many bones as a snake, all held-together with stubborn ligaments and a lot of muscles. Her speed is augmented by the fact that she doesn’t need to breathe to make her body function, but it’s not exactly special or worthy of note: every angel and demon is capable of the same thing, after all. She crosses the distance from the Weasley tent—now sporting a rather fantastic set of miracled defences that make it impregnable—to the group of wizard Nazi's in minutes.

They see her running toward them, the only one in a sea of panicking witches and wizards, and probably assume she’s a Ministry worker. A get of green light shoots out from the group toward her but Crowley uses her wings on the divine plane and deflects the spell. In the physical plane, it explodes in a rainbow of light, fizzling out as she charges through the sparks. The sight of her destroying a spell—probably the killing curse considering the sickly green shade—seems to unnerve the alt-right wizards and she sees one or two of them apparating away.

“Oh no, not happening.” Crowley snaps her fingers and those who disapparated are suddenly, violently returned to where they abruptly departed from. “You’re not getting off that easy you bastards.”

And get off easy they do not.

Several of them throw spells, hexes, and curses at Crowley but she brushes them aside, her wings blocking each of them, deflecting the magic. She moves in close, pulls the redundant piece of wood from her pocket that happens to be the wand she decided she needed to fit in, and makes a sharp slashing motion at the entire group.

If she had more time or was perhaps slightly more inclined toward cruelty, Crowley would have drawn out the act to maximise the pain caused to the stupid bastards in black robes and absurd skull masks. As it is, Aziraphale has the two people who were suspended above the group beside him and is tending to them as best he can. That’s more important than drawing out the suffering of a dozen fascists.

They fall to the ground in a slump of robed bodies, several of them knocking heads and Crowley takes pleasure in the fact they’ll have nasty headaches when they wake up. Aziraphale looks up at her when she kneels down next to him and moves her hands over the unconscious humans.

“I’ve healed the broken bones and muscles,” Aziraphale explains and Crowley nods. “I’m not certain of the nerves or their brains, I’m afraid. She never showed me the inner-workings of the human body.”

“Of course She didn’t,” Crowley mutters, “that’d make life easier for everyone. Can’t do that.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says warningly and Crowley shakes her head, focusing on the nerves of the two humans.

There’s magic in them both and Crowley figures they’re probably muggleborns, or half-bloods, since they were targeted by the death idiots. She draws on it and directs the magic to the nerves, using it to repair the damage in as natural a way as possible, preferring to work within the confines of nature for the repairs before she resorts to full-on miracles. It works better that way.

“They’ll be okay,” she says eventually and Aziraphale breathes a sigh of relief at her words. “That lot won’t be,” she adds, nodding at the alt-right fascists.

“Nor should they be, I think,” Aziraphale says and he sounds rather viciously pleased at the prospect of the wizard Nazi’s suffering. Crowley smiles toothily at that. Her angel is rather good at hiding his vicious side.

It’s pleasantly refreshing when he lets it out.

“What should we do with them?”

Crowley looks at the pile of dummy-death-eaters and shrugs. “Leave ‘em for the Ministry to sort out,” she says, “but—no masks. Makes it more fun that way,” she adds and snaps her fingers. The masks on the farcical fascists disappear and reveal the faces of a number of wizards and witches that both angel and demon know to be absolute arseholes.

Lucius Malfoy is absolutely _no_ surprise.

Aziraphale takes note of the faces he can see. “Well, that’s certainly going to… cause a ruckus.”

Crowley snorts. “Under-fucking-statement, angel.”

They both look at each other, kneeling over two unconscious victims of death eater morons and it’s like the universe slows down.[8]

So of course the moment between them is ruined by the sound of someone moving through the burnt tents behind the death eaters. Someone who casts a spell, shouting the incantation loud enough for it to echo.

“MORSMORDRE!”

A ball of greenish light zooms up into the sky from a spot roughly fifty yards from where Crowley and Aziraphale are. They exchange looks before Crowley stands and makes her way towards the spot. Aziraphale remains with the unconscious humans, watchful.

A figure is stood in a spot where a tent once was, the rods of it the only things that remain. It’s male, a wizard, and that’s all Crowley can really make out from this distance. She approaches the figure which seems to turn and notice her. She sees their arm raise, obviously the one they have their wand in, and she immediately blocks whatever it is the person sends at her with her wing.

The flashing sparks from the deflected spell illuminate the area enough that Crowley sees the face of the wizard—definitely a wizard—and does a double-take.

“What are you doing with my bloody face?”

The wizard ignores her, firing more spells at her, quicker than the death fascists and it’s clear he’s a better duellist than the lot of those idiots. One of the spells deflects off Crowley’s wing down to the ground and causes a small blow-back that makes her stumble back and fall to one knee. It’s unexpected and gives the wizard the chance to turn tail and run.

Cursing, Crowley goes to follow when a dozen wizards and witches apparate into the area and aim a dozen stupefy’s directly at her.

“Fuck.”

The spells are mostly deflected by her wings but one of them manages to hit her in the side and Crowley lets out a hissed screech at the sudden burning sensation in her side. It’s enough to knock out a human but, she’s not human, so the spell crackles against her demonic magic and energy, making it sizzle against her skin in a way she finds not at all enjoyable. It ceases immediately after, but the memory of it lingers.

Snapping her fingers, Crowley has all of the wizards and witches around her disarmed, their wands in a pile at her feet.

“That,” she bites out, glaring at the closest wizard she can see, “was very fucking rude.” They’re Ministry officials, she can see that clearly. All of them look very confused at not having their wands anymore so she mercifully miracles them back to their owners. “You let the guy who made that—” Crowley points at the glowing green skull and snake in the sky “—get away, by the way. Well done.”

“And we should believe that from the likes of you?”

Crowley turns to look at the wizard who just spoke, frowning at the way the wizard seems to stare at him… kind of creepily. It’s not sexual, not something that Crowley could explain to someone else. It just seems… off. “The likes of me?”

“You abducted a child and the only reason you aren’t imprisoned is because Albus Dumbledore and the Minister came to an agreement,” the wizard says and Crowley scowls.

“Listen,” she says and her voice is bitingly sharp. “Dumbledore didn’t arrange anything. Your Minister is an absolute coward who can’t find a spine to use to prop himself up even if I personally made him one out of diamond. I didn’t abduct Harry, I took him away from a bunch of fucking awful people who hated him and he’s happy with me and the angel. You can just keep your mouth shut on things you know nothing about _wizard_ or you’ll find out just what I did to those arrogant bloody fascists over there first-hand.”

The wizards and witches around Crowley shift nervously. They can sense that Crowley means every single word she says. That they’re very much outmatched and if she wanted to, she really could make good on her threat. The wizard in front of her seems to realise the same because he backs down quickly enough.

Crowley leaves the idiots to collect the unconscious bigots, rejoining Aziraphale just as the angel himself stands and leaves the injured humans with a medi-witch. Something must tell Aziraphale that Crowley is beyond pissed right now because he doesn’t say anything, just reaches out and holds her hand in a comforting embrace.

Crowley won’t admit it but it’s very much appreciated.

Harry and the Weasleys are still at the tent, several injured witches and wizards sat around the tent with Molly cleaning them up. Harry immediately hugs his Aunt and Uncle who hug him back rather more fiercely than they usually do.

“We’re going home,” Harry says and Crowley nods. “What happened?”

“Death eaters, dealt with them.” That’s all Crowley’s willing to give Harry and the boy must realise because he just nods. Crowley believes Harry deserves to know the truth about his scar but the demon draws the line at telling a fourteen-year-old _child_ about the contorted forms of two innocent people being tortured for entertainment by a group of racists bigots who hate anyone who isn’t Like Them. Even if Harry is aware, Crowley won’t tell him.

She just won’t deny it if Harry asks her about it.

They have the rest of the summer before Harry’s back at Hogwarts, before they all are, and Crowley doesn’t want it to be overshadowed by fascists intent on causing suffering just because they can. The entitled bastards.

* * *

* * *

[1] In Harry’s defence, he’s not usually _as_ confused as he currently is. Being raised in an environment that offers him support and mental enrichment really goes a long way in assisting his own deductive capabilities honed by abuse and trauma. How utterly depressing yet beneficial.

[2] This is something the author knew at one point in their life but was suddenly reminded the other night at, quite literally, dumbass o’clock when they had an episode of QI playing for background noise. Rather wonderful really. Apparently for several weeks of the year, during summer, the sun technically doesn’t set so it’s not technically night. The rays from the sun are curved enough by the angle of the earth during summer that it remains too light for it to be night. Fascinating.

[3] Dumbledore. Crowley means Dumbledore. So does the author. Because Dumbledore is a _dick_.

[4] Genuinely. She’s awful at being a demon unless a demon is supposed to commit minor acts of nuisance and dote on kids because they’ve got a heckin of a weak spot for kids. If that’s what a demon’s supposed to do, then she’s a bloody awesome demon. Suppose it just depends on the perspective, whether or not demons are supposed to be really evil, lets kill all the babies in Egypt like God, or more in the vein of generic nuisances for the human race. The former definitely isn’t Crowley’s cup of tea but the latter? Well that one’s definitely her kind of thing. Chaos is fun when properly applied.

[5] In the middle of a field that is the size of a car park outside an ASDA or Walmart supermarket, the author presumes. Having walked through a field of such size before, the author can certainly say that it’s vitally important that the weather on August 25th 1997 is good. Hiking through a mud pit of a field is _not_ enjoyable. That said, the field is large enough that the landowner, a muggle, doesn’t really notice the magic performed on his land by all those wizards and witches only because he’s constantly being obliviated. Bit of poor management, really. Aziraphale spares a moment to miracle the man and his wife on an all-inclusive trip to the Bahamas for the week, which, incidentally, saves them both from being horrifically tortured and mutilated later on in the day. Convenient that.

[6] Six thousand years of knowing each other has an impact on their capacity for reading the other. Crowley is exceptionally thankful for it when it means she doesn’t need to admit things aloud for her angel to understand.

[7] Crowley has a fundamental problem that has rarely been addressed except on rare occasions by Aziraphale. This is that Crowley is utterly awful at defending herself. Oh, she’s perfectly capable of fighting and is powerful to boot, that’s not what the author means. No. Crowley doesn’t defend or fight for herself to be accepted as she wishes to be. Respect, that’s necessary for a demon in order to survive. But acceptance… that’s something else entirely. Aziraphale has always fought more stridently for Crowley’s acceptance than Crowley herself, and the angel is the only being that has accepted Crowley for her malleable ways. Until Harry. If others accepted her, Crowley doesn’t know, but she definitely knows that the fourteenth century was an era where everything she was wasn’t accepted. She has a burning hatred of witch pyres for a reason.

[8] It does but neither of them notice because they’re a little, well, _distracted_ staring longingly into each other’s eyes like the utterly hopeless Jane Austen romantic trope they embody.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments and kudos are appreciated :)
> 
> ~~"comments" not _criticisms about the writing, language use, capitalisations etc ___~~
> 
> Psst!
> 
> (I'm doing prompts on my blog is you have any scenarios you would like me to consider btw: obaewankenope)


	3. Summer Ends and Term Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Can you tell me a story, Aunt Crowley?”
> 
> “What kind of story? I have lots of stories... I can tell you about Rome, Naples. I knew a guy—well, they were probably a guy—in Constantinople who told the best jokes. Absolutely cracking they were.”
> 
> “No, no... A story about you and Uncle ‘Zira.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay! It's here! Finally! I thought it'd end up being 10k but once it broke 5k, I legitimately was at the point where I was begging for it to please get on with the plot. Lots of stuff in this one. Pay attention though, you may notice some things ;)
> 
> Next update will be... honestly, I have no idea. Gods help me.

Harry’s Hogwarts supplies are almost accounted for; except his potion ingredients as the potions shop was closed the day they visited Diagon Alley. Aziraphale took the opportunity presented that day to take Harry to several magical museums outside of London, including the Lion Salt Works near Northwich. The last day of August is dedicated to one last trip around London by the irregular family unit, ending in spending the night at Grimmauld Place where Sirius attempts to out-drink Crowley and promptly gets alcohol-poisoning while Lupin laughs himself silly at the sheer stupidity exhibited.

Harry isn’t present for the drinking contest—fortunately—but he does hear about the results the following morning when he greets his godfather and discovers Sirius is nursing one hell of a hangover. Neither angel nor demon had been kind enough as to miracle that away, though they did fix his liver and other internal organs[1].

“Shouldn’t drink with Aunt Crowley, then,” Harry says and Sirius mutters dark things under his breath about _cheeky_ _brats_ and _freakish_ _demons_ and _inhuman_ _alcohol_ _tolerances_. It’s all rather amusing for Harry who just grins and leaves his godfather to his coffee and painkiller potion.

“Sirius looks great,” Harry says, smirking at Remus when the lycan looks up from his armchair in the lounge.

Remus laughs. “It’s his own fault,” he says and Harry nods. “I told him not to try and out drink either of your parents but he didn’t listen.”

Harry snorts and opens his mouth to tell Remus that, that’s _exactly why_ Sirius tried it anyway when he notices Remus sporting a strange expression on his face. “What?”

Remus shakes his head. “Oh, uh, I forgot myself for a moment,” he replies and Harry plays back what the lycan just said.

“You called them my parents.” Harry watches Remus’s face, reading the expression on it as best he can. The closest he gets to describing it is a strange mix of confusion and grief. “I do see them that way but—” he shrugs “—I don’t think I should call them mum and dad when I had a mum and dad. I don’t know how Aunt Crowley would feel about it, or Uncle Aziraphale.”

“No no,” Remus says and he looks at Harry, still with that grieving confusion, but his eyes are clear and fiery. “If you feel that way, you should tell them. It’s your choice, not mine or anyone else’s. If Aziraphale and Crowley feel the same, then—” Remus breaks off, swallowing and blinking rapidly “—I think Lily and James would be happy you were loved the same as they loved you.”

Harry doesn’t know what to say to that. He’s not sure he _should_ respond to that. Remus is- he’s giving Harry his approval and accepting something Harry hasn’t been comfortable discussing but has felt for a while. He’s known Aziraphale and Crowley since he was nine and the demon rescued him from the Dursleys. He’s been treated kindly and loved by them unconditionally for years now. They’re the closest thing to parents for him and to have someone—especially Remus—tell Harry that his actual parents who _died_ _for him_ would be happy with this- it’s- Harry doesn’t know.

“T-thanks.”

“It’s no bad thing, Harry,” Remus says softly, standing from the armchair and coming to stand in front of Harry. He looks up at the lycan who gives him one of the gentlest smiles Harry’s ever received. “Wanting a family again.”

“You’re all my family,” Harry replies immediately and Remus’s smile softens further. “I don’t need more than that.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Remus places a hand on the Indian boys shoulder, the grip firm and warm. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t _want_ more. It’s not selfish to want to be loved, Harry. It’s human.”

“It feels selfish.”

“Only because you were raised by Petunia and her husband and they taught you to not ask for anything,” Remus says and he sounds—well—he sounds angry about it but also sad. Harry supposes it’s a sad thing, a child being made to not ask for anything because they’ve been taught to hate themselves and everything they are all because of fear and bigotry. That is- yeah, that’s sad really. Very sad. And incredibly unfair. “I know it’s hard to unlearn things from when you’re young but, Harry, you’re stronger than Petunia’s hate. You deserve to be loved as much as you want and need. It’s not selfish, it’s natural.”

Remus gently embraces Harry, arms wrapping around the boy who clings back to him with a fierce desperation. “I know what it’s like to feel like you’re being selfish when you want to be loved and accepted, Harry,” he says quietly, and Harry realises Remus really _does_ know what it’s like. He didn’t like that he was a werewolf for most of his life until Aziraphale helped him accept it. If anyone knows what it’s like to feel like you’re not allowed to be loved, it’s Remus.

“I believe you.” Harry’s voice is muffled by Remus’s tweed jacket but he knows Remus hears him. He pulls back, looking at Remus, his other godfather, and smiles. “I believe you.”

“Good.” Remus nods. “I think you’re going to be late for the train if you linger here much longer,” he says, sounding more like his usual self and Harry nods. “Best hurry, Sirius wants to see you off to the station.”

Harry hugs Remus again, tightly, before he moves to leave the room.

“Thank you, Remus,” Harry says, just before he leaves the lounge and heads to his room to pack. “Thank you.”

“Any time, Harry. Any time.”

The Hogwarts Express is, as always, loud, chaotic, and downright fun. The first carriage compartment Harry manages to find that’s empty is quickly commandeered for his friends. Fred, George, Ginny, and Neville join Ron and Hermione in the compartment along with a girl who accompanied Ginny called Luna Lovegood. She’s a strange girl but Harry likes her for the fact that she’s utterly unconcerned with who Harry is and doesn’t care about fawning over him like some of the other students have done before.

Including Ginny.

Thank Merlin, she got over _that_ quickly.

“I can’t believe your Aunt took down those death eaters that easily, Harry!” Neville says and Harry shrugs. “My grandmother heard about it from one of her friends in the Ministry. Apparently they’re all concerned now that Professor Crowley is—”

“A dark witch, yeah I know,” Harry says with a sigh. It’s not exactly all that surprising. Considering the students in his second year thought much the same about Aunt Crowley and Harry with the Chamber, Harry doesn’t have much faith in the intelligence of the Ministry. Especially when he includes the way they didn’t even give Sirius a _trial_. “They’re scared of her because she’s better at their jobs than they are, big surprise there.”

“It could be dangerous for her, Harry,” Hermione says, frowning worriedly. “If the Ministry think Professor Crowley is evil because she defeated those death eaters at the Final, then they could try and arrest her. Even charge and imprison her.”

“They’d try but Fudge is still scared of her after the Basilisk thing,” Harry reminds her and Hermione shakes her head.

“Hermione, I get it okay, _I know_ ,” he says calmly. “The Ministry could try and arrest her but Aunt Crowley and Uncle Aziraphale both have told me that it wouldn’t work out well for the Ministry. I don’t know why, Hermione, before you ask, just that it _won’t_.”

“And you believe them?”

“Yes.”

Two years ago, Harry would have hesitated before answering. Even six months ago, he might have. But not anymore. He trusts his aunt and uncle, trusts them and believes that they’ll tell him the truth when they know it’s _safe_ for him to know it and not lie to him. Even Aunt Crowley being a demon doesn’t stop her from telling Harry the truth. In fact, he thinks, Aunt Crowley tells the truth _more_ _than_ U _ncle_ _Aziraphale_.

Hermione nods. “Okay then.”

“How was your summer, Neville?” Harry asks the Gryffindor boy, before Hermione can suggest discussing the book she’s got hold of—which Harry knows Uncle Aziraphale sent her because she expressed an interest in numerical magical or something. The trip to the Hogsmeade station is interspersed with Neville recounting his herbology-related exploits, several games of exploding snap, and the twins causing general chaos when a group of Slytherin sixth years pass the compartment and are mysteriously jinxed.

It’s business as usual, basically.

* * *

Crowley and Aziraphale are informed of something they should have been told about a month _before_ term started when Dumbledore calls a staff meeting to discuss said something.

“Ex-fucking-cuse me?”

Dumbledore looks at Crowley and the demon swears, she absolutely _swears_ the bastard is smiling at her in amusement at how _pissed_ Crowley is about this absolute joke!

“The Ministry—in a bid to foster international co-operation—thought it wise to hold The Triwizard Tournament this year,” Dumbledore repeats, calm as calm can be and Crowley is very close to clawing that twinkling, amused expression of that bastard’s face. So close.

“Albus,” McGonagall says and at least she sounds concerns and disapproving of this bullshit. “The tournament hasn’t been held in over a century. It’s dangerous.”

“I don’t want any of my Badgers to die because of a tournament,” Pomona Sprout says and she sounds very distressed at the idea. Protective woman, that one. Crowley approves of her for that.

“I don’t imagine any of us wish that to happen.” Aziraphale looks at Dumbledore with the expression on his face that Crowley has come to dub as the unhappy-but-too-polite-to-swear-at-you-for-it expression. It’s one the angel has employed several times on Crowley for certain… shenanigans.

“Of course,” Dumbledore agrees and Crowley can _feel_ the ‘but’ in the headmaster’s voice. It’s positively screaming at her that the bastard is lying lying lying.

Not that she can come out and say that-

Oh wait. She can.

“Sure you don’t,” Crowley says and there’s a whole load of sarcasm in her voice and hse’s not even trying to curb it. The staffroom goes silent. “Not like you don’t want students to be murdered on the daily what with the suspected murderer last year, the murder snake the year before, oh and that fucking bastard Quirrell-feat-Voldemort on his head three years ago. Yeah. Doesn’t sound at all like you don’t give a fuck about the safety of the students at this school.”

“You can’t blame the headmaster for all of that!” McGonagall points out, sounding a little more aggrieved than usual. Oh well.

“Why not?” Crowley looks at her. “He’s the one in charge, right?” She looks at Dumbledore who seems rather displeased with Crowley calling him out like this. Tough shit. It’s about damned time. “Didn’t do much three years ago except bring a dangerous object into a school full of kids, setting up a series of traps that three _children_ solved and could have died because of. Year after? Didn’t inform the ministry of jack until you had no damned choice. Didn’t close the school even though one attack should have been enough to do fucking _something other than curfews!_ And last year! Ha! Dementors that attacked students. Supposed murderer running around. Targeting my kid and what did you do? Wore worse fucking outfits than you did the year before, that’s what!”

Crowley hisses in honest frustration. “And that’s not even to mention the fact you didn’t do shit about Hagrid almost getting dragged off to Azkaban! Some headmaster you are!”

“Crowley, dear,” Aziraphale says softly, a hand on Crowley’s arm. The angel is looking at her with a gentle expression, one that is also fiercely proud of what Crowley has said.

Some of the staff seem a little more thoughtful than usual about Dumbledore, which is more than they were beforehand. That’s something at least.

“If Harry is put in danger because of this shit, Albus-fucking-Dumbledore,” Crowley says, looking the headmaster in the eye and letting him _see_ that Crowley isn’t fucking around. “I promise you, you’ll regret it.”

Snape snorts. “Oh, how terrifying,” the Slytherin potions master says and Crowley turns to look at him instead. “If Potter ends up in the middle of anything this year, it’s his own fault for being a trouble-maker like his no-good fath-”

“Oh my,” Filius breathes, blinking rapidly. “Where did you send him?”

“Don’t know, don’t fucking care,” Crowley replies. Aziraphale doesn’t even sigh at her antics. “He’ll have a shitty time, though.”

“Good,” Aziraphale murmurs, loud enough for only Crowley to hear. The demon glances at the angel, eyebrows quirked. “Perhaps he’ll learn some manners.”

“I’m afraid I shall need my Potions Professor back before classes begin tomorrow, madam Crowley,” Dumbledore says calmly, like he hasn’t just been ranted at by a very irate, protective demon. Crowley scowls at him.

“It’s professor, you manipulative bastard.”

Dumbledore smiles. “Professor,” he corrects, “the fact remains that Professor Snape is required for classes.”

Crowley’s scowl deepens. “He’ll be here Tuesday night,” she says and decides that’s enough now, before she miracles Dumbledore into pieces. Tempting as that is, it’s the sort of thing that really does generate a fair amount of paperwork she doesn’t want to have to fill out or explain to her higher ups. “Goodnight.”

The rest of the staff don’t really have much of a chance to bid her and Aziraphale goodnight as Crowley shortcuts the whole walking thing and magics them to their shared quarters. It’s something only they can do—maybe Harry too, Crowley isn’t sure, she hasn’t actually tested what Harry can do that isn’t _standard—_ and she knows it annoys Dumbledore no-end. The annoying bastard can’t do what she and the angel can do and he hates not knowing things.

It’s one of the things Crowley takes great pleasure of lording over him when he’s irritating to be around. That and the fact that she can delete entire colours from the colour-spectrum if Dumbledore doesn’t stop wearing them. That’s always fun.

It’s no surprise that, for the entirety of the month of September, the students avoid Crowley as much as possible. Not when they overhear her muttering dire things about atrocious-colour-wearing bastards with conniving, lying habits. They spend a lot of time gossiping and placing bets as to whatever the headmaster has done now to irritate the professor. Of course, not one of them is right except, ironically enough, a cynical Slytherin: Draco Malfoy makes a good guess that it’s probably something to do with “precious Potter” and—well—he’s not wrong in the end.

Not that he’ll _realise_ that at the conclusion of the year. Teenage boys tend not to have the most stellar of memory recall.

With the revelation that the school is to host the Triwizard Tournament and that students who are of age can enter, there’s a fever-like hotness to the behaviour of the students in the run up to the arrival of the international competitors. If it weren’t for the fact that four Gryffindor boys a few decades ago made it their life’s mission to obtain as many detentions as possible, McGonagall would have admitted that she’d never handed out so many in little under a month. As it stands, the number is still high enough to be worthy of note—especially with the Weasley twins taking a good share of them.

October is usually a shenanigan-filled month but this is quite honestly absurd. Crowley is actually impressed with the amount of chaos and mischief the students get up to. It’s comparable to letting a hoard of baby demons loose in a building full of humans and telling them to have fun so long as they don’t murder or maim. She’s a little bit tempted to drop a memo down to the higher ups about the benefits of the merry month of October and perhaps investigating human child-led chaos for possible benefit to Hell’s mission to be a general nuisance in Her side.

Of course, Hell would expect _information_ and _evidence_ of such and that would mean the students would be _evaluated_ by an independent demonic agent. Crowley certainly wants to avoid _that_ , thank you very much.

Harry, at least, doesn’t cause any chaos in her life; he’s quite the opposite in fact.

* * *

“Can you tell me a story, Aunt Crowley?” Harry asks, sitting on the sofa, knees drawn up to his chest. There’s a thick woollen blanket pooled around him and it makes the fourteen-year-old boy look years younger. He looks happy and healthy.

It warms her blackened, demonified heart of Grace[2].

“What kind of story? I have lots of stories,” she says, tilting her head as she looks at Harry who smiles. “I can tell you about Rome, Naples. I knew a guy—well, they were _probably_ a guy—in Constantinople who told the best jokes. Absolutely cracking they were.” Crowley smirks when Harry starts to laugh.

“No, no,” Harry says through his laughter. “A story about you and Uncle ‘Zira.”

Crowley doesn’t sigh but she does let out a breath. It possibly sounds a bit hissy but she won’t admit it.

“Why about us?” She asks. “We’re boring. Nothing interesting. Not compared to the famous Bucket War in the fourteenth century! I even knew a couple of the soldiers involved in taking the bucket back to Modena when Bologna lost.”

“I think Hermione might like to hear about that,” Harry says and he’s not distracted by Crowley’s attempt to distract him. Damn. “But I- I was- I just wanted to know how you and Uncle ‘Zira met.”

“How we met?”

Crowley isn’t quite sure how to tell Harry that story. There’s technically _two_ stories for their ‘first’ meeting—or meetings, as it is. One, Crowley knows Aziraphale won’t recall, the other… well, her angel loves to tell _that_ _one._

“Have you asked Aziraphale?” She’s curious. If Harry’s asked her and _not_ the angel… or if he’s asking her to hear her version of events.

That’s probably a bit paranoid of her really but demon; paranoia is kind of implied.

“I was going to,” Harry answers honestly and Crowley- she doesn’t relax exactly, but she feels a little coil of serpentine scales loosen inside at the honesty in Harry’s voice. He’s quite an honest boy, really. Unless he’s dealing with the likes of Snape. “But he’s in the library with Professor McGonagall talking about some manuscript he found in one of the side-rooms in the Restricted Section. I didn’t think it was a good idea to disturb them.”

Crowley frowns. “Why not?”

She’s not thinking of the transfiguration professor trying to creep on her angel. She’s not.

Jealousy over Aziraphale is stupid[3].

“They looked like they were concentrating and Professor McGonagall had her wand pointed at the book,” Harry explains. “I think she was doing something to it but I wasn’t sure so I didn’t want to interrupt.”

Crowley sighs. “Typical bloody angel,” she mutters. Of course, he’s going to be distracted by whatever old as balls book he’s found, and of course he’s going to forget all about anything and everything else because of it. She’ll be lucky if he even returns to their chambers tonight.

She’ll be blessed if he shows up at _breakfast_.

“Right. Okay then.” Crowley drops graciously into the armchair she’s claimed as hers in the chambers from the moment they first claimed them four years ago. It’s pristine, as always, but there’s something almost snake-like about it. There’s a burning heat that seems to emanate from the plush fabric; one Crowley adores because it warms her chill form[4].

“What do you want to know?”

Harry frowns. “How- how you met,” he says, looking at her. “What happened to make you meet? Why? You know: that sort of thing.”

“That sort of thing,” Crowley echoes quietly, biting her lip in thought. “All right. Right. Yeah. Well.” She pauses, trying to figure out how to get the ball rolling, so to speak. “You know I’m a demon, right?” Harry nods. “Well, demons and angels used to be the same. Then there was a bit of a disagreement about management style, that sort of thing, and the ones who left became demons.”

“You were one of the ones who left.”

Crowley nods. “Kind of. I didn’t want to stay, really, more than I wanted to leave,” she explains. “Was curious about what it’d be like with different management. Figured out it’s pretty much the same. Just have different company name and perks.”

“Perks?” Harry tilts his head. “You get perks in a job?”

“Sure. Like how professors can give detentions no matter the cause,” Crowley says and Harry scowls. “That one Snape gave you last week was for no reason, right?” Harry’s scowl deepens as he nods. “He gave you one anyway because he’s a professor and a bully who likes having power over others. Makes him feel better about himself.”

“By terrorising Neville all the time?” Harry shakes his head. “That shouldn’t make anyone feel better about themselves.”

“Some people are nasty, Harry,” Crowley says quietly. She’s never lied to him about the nature of humanity, or her role in corrupting it—badly and usually with minor annoyances but it’s still corruption. Harry, for all that he grew up with the damned Dursleys, does tend to take after the angel in his incomprehensibility of human cruelty. Cruelty in general, really.

Not like humans have got a monopoly on being mean bastards.

“Yeah, I know.” Harry pulls the woollen blanket up over his knees, arms under it, like he’s seeking warmth and comfort. Crowley doesn’t leave her chair, but she does flick her wrist and miracle the blanket warmer and softer than it was prior. Harry looks at her and smiles. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Crowley blinks. She hasn’t actually responded to anyone thanking her so amiably in a long time. “Anyway. Back to the story.”

“I ended up becoming a demon and, well, it wasn’t exactly great. No structure, lots of confusion. Lots of people trying to get the top jobs, you know, corporate environment; breeding ground for chaos.” Crowley looks at Harry who appears to have no idea what she means so she just smirks and continues. Spare him another few years before he meets his own, human version of hell: the 9-5 work environment.

“I decided to skip the arguing for what job and, rather stupidly actually, went to the top guy in the new office to get a job direct,” Crowley says, looking away from Harry. Her eyes roam around the chambers, not really paying attention whilst also paying too much attention. She’s not the biggest fan of telling this sort of story with these details but, well, she did it to herself.

Also, she won’t lie to Harry and paint a pretty picture of being a demon so-

Onwards.

“I know you know something about the Devil,” Crowley glances back at Harry and sees him nod. “Well, that Bible is… it’s not exactly accurate.” It’s as bloody accurate as Hell is friendly. “Devil is- see- not nice. But he’s slyer than the Bible says. And- oh I don’t know! I can’t explain it to you. It’s not something I think I _can_ explain.”

“Okay.”

“It’s not because I don’t want- wait, what?”

Harry shrugs. “Okay,” he says. “If you can’t, then you can’t.” He seems to realise that Crowley is currently staring at him like she can’t understand what he’s saying. “You and Uncle ‘Zira have never pushed me to explain stuff about the Dursleys,” Harry explains and Crowley blinks. “So I’m not going to make you try to talk about something you can’t. That’d be… it’d be mean.”

Cruel, she thinks. Harry means _cruel._

“So you got a job, what was it?” Harry asks rather suddenly and it’s what Crowley needs to snap out of whatever shut-down her mind has been looping through like an overly slow IBM computer. “I’m guessing it has something to do with Uncle ‘Zira.”

 _Thank_ _you_ , Crowley thinks. It’s strange for her to have someone else in her life who she can trust to… show her kindness. Harry and Aziraphale. It’s- some days it still throws her for a loop.

“It- yeah, yeah it does, yeah.” Crowley nods. Her lips feel dry. She licks them. Her heart is… it’s slowing from a rhythm she didn’t even realise had increased. Her skin feels like it’s coated in a fine sheen of cold dew. Clammy.

Oh. She’d been in the beginnings of a panic attack.

Harry had distracted her in time to avoid it becoming full-blown; and he knew he’d done so.

She smiles slightly. He won’t comment on it, she knows that. Just like she never commented on the ones Harry used to have; still has, sometimes. Aziraphale probably would have said something about it by now but Harry- Harry just lets it be. It’s trust. That’s what it is.

She loves him for it. If she’d ever had a child, if it’d ever been safe to, Crowley thinks that maybe—just maybe—it might have turned out like Harry. But that’s a fantasy. She’s a demon, demons don’t have children. They don’t have- none of them.

Harry is the closest she’ll have to a child. She’s okay with that.

“Anyway, yeah, I got a job and it was, I quote, ‘to get up there and make some trouble,’” Crowley says, focusing on the story. It’s easier to focus on that than to let these deep thoughts linger. “So that’s exactly what I went to do.”

“On Earth?”

“In Eden,” Crowley corrects. “Earth was- She’d made it and Eden was _on it_ but this was before time. Before She made it so the sands would move and denote the passage of time. It was Earth before it was Earth.”

“Wow.” Harry looks like he’s trying to imagine it, what Eden looked like. Crowley knows he’ll never be able to imagine it but… maybe she could show him an _echo_ of it.

“Hold on,” she says, holding out a hand to her left. She closes her eyes. “Let me just try something.”

It takes a lot to try and do the impossible. Crowley is well-versed in how to perform miracles and just as well-versed in how to perform curses. This is something that might be half-way between the true. Neither miraculous nor cursed. Just… _imaginative_. Fortunately for her, she’s got quit the imagination.

And a significant dose of sheer stubborn belligerence too[5].

Harry, she knows, is watching avidly. He always does when Crowley is doing something that isn’t typical of her; even as a demon, he knows she has limits. Sometimes. This is a limit she’s pushing past, a rule, a border between what she should be doing and what she definitely shouldn’t.

But Crowley has always been one for breaking the rules.

It starts slowly. Particles coalescing in the air, reflecting and refracting in immeasurably complex ways. They shine and shimmer in waves of colour, splitting across the spectrum of the visible and invisible. Droplets of light, shining and twinkling in the air, collect, arrange, become shapes with definition. Texture. Depth.

What was once a chamber in Hogwarts: School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, now is something else. Something long-since forgotten by human memory.

“ _Wow_.”

Crowley opens her eyes, hand dropping to her side, and blinks. There’s echoes of light behind her eyelids that dissipates the more she blinks until they’re gone. Harry is still curled up on the sofa, but he’s staring around the room in wonder. The walls of the chamber are gone, overshadowed by a mirage just solid enough for Crowley to touch.

They’re in the midst of Eden.

“Wasn’t sure that’d work,” she says quietly, shaking her head. There’s a lingering sense of dizziness in her head from the focus it took to bring this to life. A simple illusion is one thing, something as expansive as this—as interactive—is on a higher order of illusion than what a simple demon ought be capable of.

If she’s done it right, no one will be aware of this either. Pulling from both sides just enough, weaving it together with human magic… it should be completely under the radar.

Oh, she hopes it’s under the radar.

“Is this- is this Eden?” Harry asks, voice hushed. Crowley nods. “ _Wow_.”

Crowley looks at the scene she’s created. She can feel the threads to her that allow her to manipulate the display, move about in what is essentially a magically-created virtual world. In a decade or two, this sort of thing will be cutting edge; right now it’s just Crowley being Crowley and ignoring the rules and her own limitations. She twitches a thread and the room shifts, moves. It’s a blur of light and colour for a split-second before it settles. What had been lush greenery and dappled sunlight filtering through leaves to sun-baked earth, is now bright and sunny; clear blue sky and shining yellow sand.

A wall splits the room in two.

“What’s that?” Harry points at the wall.

“The Wall.” Crowley stares at it. She’s not disconcerted to see the Wall again. She’s not. Maybe a little… ruffled in the wing. It’s not like she ever really expected to see it again; didn’t think she could do what she’s doing right now in order _to_ see it. Now that she can… it brings a feeling of strange nostalgia to her chest. Like a ribbon of smooth memory flowing around her heart, tightening and loosening in time with each beat of the organ. “That’s when it was pretty new.”

“Is that where you met Uncle Aziraphale?”

Crowley nods. “In a way,” she answers. “I saw him in the Garden sometimes, not up close,” she says, glancing at Harry. “He talked to me on the Wall.”

Harry leans forward on the sofa, hand out to try and touch the leaf that flutters past him on the gentlest of breezes. His fingers don’t really touch it, more like they interact with the light particles; the leaf scatters in a burst of light without heat. “Oh!”

“It’s an illusion, Harry,” Crowley explains to the teenager who blinks in surprise, looking at his hand and flexing his fingers. “You can’t really touch an illusion. Just see it with your eyes.”

“You can though, right? Because you created this?” Harry tilts his head, brow furrowed. “That’s- is it because it’s your magic that’s making it? That you’re able to affect it?”

“Kinda,” Crowley replies. “It’s complicated. I’m not really touching it though, just… shifting the threads that are holding it all together.” She frowns. “Bit like a loom. I’m a bloody loom, wow, amazing analogy Crowley, fantastic.”

Harry looks at her, seemingly amused at the rationale there. Crowley can’t blame him. The idea of her as a loom is genuinely hilarious. Sort of like how imagining Aziraphale as a yodeller is hilarious[6].

“Anyway,” Crowley says, “story. Right. No more tangents.” Harry nods. “So, you know the story of Adam and Eve? First humans, Tree of Knowledge, forbidden fruit, yadda yadda.”

“Most of it, yeah,” Harry replies. “Primary school had R.E. so we read Genesis.”

“Actual Genesis or kid edition Genesis?”

Harry shrugs. “It was an illustrated bible so I’m guessing the kid edition.”

Crowley snorts. “Well, still gets the point across, I guess,” she mutters.

“So, where about in Eden is this?” Harry asks suddenly. “I mean, I know it’s ‘The Wall’,” he continues, “but walls have beginnings and ends, right? So where is this?” He gestures at The Wall in front of them.

Crowley tilts her head. “East. It’s eastern,” she answers, twitching a finger. The Wall increases in size, coming closer and their perspective shifts until they’re situated atop The Wall, overlooking a vast desert of gold.

“This is the Eastern Wall.” Crowley jerks her head towards the right. “The Gate is that way,” she adds. “Adam and Eve got through a hole in The Wall near here; they couldn’t get through The Gate, so they went around it.”

“Is this where you met Uncle ‘Zira, then?”

Crowley nods.

“What was it like? Meeting him? You were a demon, right, and he was an angel.”

“I’m _still_ a demon, Harry,” Crowley says and Harry nods.

“Yeah, but like, you didn’t know each other back then, so you were a Scary Demon,” Harry explains and Crowley can hear the capitalisation of ‘scary’ and ‘demon’ in Harry’s voice. “So what was it like? Did you attack each other? Did you try and tempt him? Did you—”

“I made a joke.”

“What?”

“I made a joke,” Crowley repeats and she smiles a little, remembering it. “Didn’t really land all that great really, but it broke the ice. Sort of.”

Crowley tilts her head. “He was… nervous, you know,” she says. “Didn’t really know how to take a demon standing next to him, making jokes, and questioning the Great Plan from the start.”

“The Great Plan?”

Crowley waves her hand. “Not your problem.”

The look Harry gives her says that he very much _doubts that_. But it’s true. It’s not Harry’s problem. It’s not anyone’s problem but Her. And since Crowley doesn’t have a direct line to Her, she can’t ask anything that will receive a definitive answer.

That rubbish about God being in the details is… irritatingly accurate. Crowley just dislikes thinking about it. Gives her hives, it does.

“He didn’t really seem to get why I was there, wasn’t sure what he should do; attack or flee,” Crowley says. She looks down at her hand, noting the chipped polish on her nails. A single flare of her power makes it so the polish is perfect once again. The nails are long, more like claws than the typical type of nails women sport. Crowley likes them that way. It feels like she has a weapon always at hand, beyond her being a demon and all that en tales. Besides, they’re the next best thing to fangs.

“I’m glad he did neither.”

“So, what happened then?” Harry sounds hesitant.

Crowley looks up at him and realises she’d lapsed into silence after the little admission there. She clears her throat.

“Nothing.”

Harry frowns. “Nothing?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Crowley confirms. She lets the threads holding the mirage unravel, the world of Eden around them fizzing out, revealing the chamber behind. It feels like she’s letting go of something that causes her both joy and pain.

She _is_ letting go of something that hurts and comforts her. Oh, she’s not going to think about that again. Nope.

“I went back to Hell, reported to the Boss, then got sent on to my next job,” Crowley says and it’s final. The story is over now. She’s told Harry what he wanted to know; well, she’s told him what happened, not necessarily what he _wanted_ to know. “Anyway, moving on, you’ve got class in the morning. Off to bed with you.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Yes Aunt Crowley,” he sighs. “Can I take the blanket with me?”

Crowley eyes the blanket. It’s one Aziraphale made. “Go on, it’s yours.”

Harry smiles. “Thank you, Aunt.”

It shouldn’t make Crowley feel bad that he’s thanking her for a bloody blanket. It does, but it _shouldn’t_. Damned bloody Dursleys.

“Go on,” she says, giving Harry a hug that he doesn’t argue against. He loves the affection. “I don’t want McGonagall complaining to me that you slept through her class.”

Harry laughs. “Impossible,” he says, “she’s too scary.”

Crowley smirks. “Goodnight, Harry.”

“Night Aunt Crowley.”

* * *

Durmstrang and Beauxbatons arrive in as much style as can be expected of their respective countries of origin[7]. Beauxbatons embodies the French stereotypes of being light and airy, pale blue and so very fancy that it makes Hogwarts and its students look like a rabble of savages. It’s not exactly inaccurate considering the history of the British Isles with France. But it’s still amusing to see how the French school has embraced those stereotypes—Crowley almost respects it. Almost.

Durmstrang arrive in an imposing, intense manner which they maintain throughout their entrance into the Great Hall and seating at the Slytherin table. Although there are murmurs of the Durmstrang students seeking out other dark magic users, it’s more a matter that the Slytherin table allows for a rather complete view of the Great Hall—though there’s also the dark magic aspect, too. Rather minor in comparison to the fact that Durmstrang’s bloody headmaster reeks of blood magic—just like Snape, actually—and appears more like a half-starved, desperate rodent seeking to escape the cage it’s in.

Crowley doesn’t know what that’s about but she does know that Igor Karkaroff is not going anywhere near any student whilst she’s still got fangs.

Aziraphale joins Crowley atop the Astronomy tower in the early hours. She can smell the ink on her Angel’s hands, ingrained in the skin until Aziraphale remembers to miracle it away. It’s a comforting smell. She shouldn’t find it so comforting, considering; she still does.

“I’m not sure if this is a good idea, Crowley,” Aziraphale says. He sounds worried. It’s a near default state for the Angel but there’s more worry than usual in his tone. “There’s something… not quite right.”

“I got a memo today,” Crowley says and she can sense the way the Angel tenses at her words. “Something’s going to happen with that Cup that Hell’s all up in arms about.”

“Something… good for Hell or bad for Hell?”

Crowley shrugs. “Not sure. Bit of both, maybe,” she answers. “I think Harry’s going to be involved.”

“I do too,” Aziraphale admits. Crowley can see the expression on the Angel’s face from the corner of her eye. He looks about as happy with that prospect as she feels. “We can’t allow him to come to harm.”

“We also can’t allow Heaven or Hell to catch on to us keeping him safe.” Crowley pauses. “Well, as safe as we can.”

“We’re going to have to rely on the mortal form of magic, aren’t we?” Aziraphale turns to look directly at Crowley. She nods. “I’ve been researching the mortal magic, attempting to determine if there’s a way we can… _augment_ it with our own power.”

“And?”

“It’s possible,” Aziraphale says. “More for you than for me, considering you’re used to working around- well- you—”

“I’m used to having no access to Her so I can adapt quicker to having to use something else for power,” Crowley finishes for Aziraphale who nods. “It’s all right, Angel. You’re going to have the tougher time, right?”

“Yes, well, I’ll figure it out.” Aziraphale straightens, head high.

“I know you will, Angel.” Crowley takes in the sight of Aziraphale being determined to do something that most would consider impossible. Crowley is capable of the impossible because she despises being limited; Aziraphale is capable of the impossible because he’s too kind to not try anything he can to help. Even if it means taking Her divine power and splicing it with mortal magic in an irreversible way.

She smiles. “I know you will.”

* * *

* * *

[1] Aziraphale and Crowley discuss the state of Sirius’s health about a week after term starts, in their chambers, and come to the conclusion that _no, no we’re not going to inform him that he was experiencing organ failure from poor treatment and repeated Dementors_. They do, however, sneakily make it Known to some select healers at St. Mungo’s who cause quite the ruckus in the Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly over the lack of proper medical care for incarcerated criminals under the Ministry’s rule. It’s quite a drama and both receive notes from heaven and hell remarking on Doing A Good/Bad Job with it.

[2] Crowley isn’t aware that their Grace, the core of their being, is not actually corrupted. It’s certainly _damaged_ after the free-fall from the unimaginable height of Heaven to the deepest depths of Hell, but not corrupted. You see, dear reader, it was Her will in the end that determined how hurt Her children would be by their Fall. Those who Fell, of course, were not aware of this; they still aren’t, in fact. The corruption comes not from Falling itself but from what is done _after_ the landing. Or impact, to be more accurate. Because of this, there are those in Hell who are not… strictly speaking… actually all that demonic. Crowley is rather good at pretending to be bad. She’s also rather bad at pretending to not be good, as well.

[3] Fortunately, Crowley happens to be stupid.

[4] When Aziraphale isn’t there to warm her, at least.

[5] When She created Crowley, She hadn’t quite this in mind. This unique mixture of creativity and determination. It marked Crowley as a fantastic creature among the fantastical, but it also made Her creation an oddity. Fortunately for this oddity, She had the wisdom to create another oddity. Well-matched. But different. For differences can be _most_ complimentary after all.

[6] The irony of Crowley considering Aziraphale as a yodeller is this: the Principality of the Eastern Gate of Eden was once actually a yodeller. He did not become well-known, more interested in utilising his celestial voice in private, very well-warded rooms far from his beloved bookshop. But he learnt and maintained several friendships with notable yodellers such as Bobbejaan Schoepen (“Bob! My dear friend!” was often the declaration by Aziraphale to the Flem), and Franz Lang, a rather delightful Bavarian with whom Aziraphale spent hours perfecting his own vocalisations before the wine and beer left the Angel utterly sodden for almost 48 hours. Were Crowley to ever learn of this aspect of Aziraphale’s past, it would be quite the spectacularly amusing discovery.

[7] The author really doesn’t like how the schools were portrayed in the movies OR the books. Very stereotypical. Sods to that, says the author. Let’s have it so they knowingly embrace the stereotypes that British people have of other European countries. Just ignore the bigotry inherent in the stereotyping: Rowling did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rowling can suck it. 
> 
> Comments and kudos, as always, are appreciated.


	4. chapter titles are a lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s understandable then, Harry thinks, for him to be interested in the Triwizard Tournament. He’s fourteen and a boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to all the arses in Ace Omens who kept telling me to "GO TO SLEEP OBAE" when writing this. _If I'd gone to sleep you wouldn't have this chapter to enjoy, you heathens!_

Dumbledore had introduced everyone to the existence of the Goblet of Fire later on in the evening after the arrival of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. It hadn’t been all that dramatic a thing really, though Dumbledore did his best to _make_ it dramatic1. Harry had rolled his eyes at the theatrics; the fancy lighting, the ominous sort of vibe the headmaster obviously wanted, and the general fascination of the students with the Tournament.

Gryffindor tower, later that night, had been awash with students planning to enter—whether or not they were old enough. According to common room gossip, Angelina Johnson, Alicia Spinnet, Chris Garland—who Harry doesn’t really know but apparently is pretty good at Wizard’s Chess according to Ron—Aiden O’Connor, and Shelagh O’Dowd were the only Gryffindors to have put their names in that night. All the others, as far as Harry is aware, have put their names in first thing in the morning along with students from the other houses.

Much of the gossip in the common room centred around who would be the Champion, the gold they’d win, and bets of all kinds about potential challenges and scores for each school’s Champion.

It’s understandable then, Harry thinks the next morning, for him to be interested in the Triwizard Tournament. He’s fourteen and a boy. He likes to know things and to be aware of important stuff like competitions; if only to avoid them and the ridiculous fame-based hysteria that goes hand-in-hand. Still, it’s interesting to him and he can’t help but pay attention when students go and put their names in.

Hermione and Ron are happy enough to sit on the benches in the disused classroom that’s been commandeered for the goblet to reside in. Ron takes great pleasure in insulting students who he thinks are never going to get picked; namely every Slytherin that puts their name in2.

Hermione, at least, doesn’t denigrate the other students out loud; she just pulls a face whenever a seventh year she doesn’t think will cut it puts their name in. She pulled a face when several Gryffindor seventh years put their names in and Harry figures she’s a better judge of their academic abilities than Ron is3.

Of course, if the goblet actually works by measuring academic achievement then one of the Ravenclaws would definitely be chosen as Hogwarts Champion. If it works on, like Ron guesses, attitude and personality, it’d probably be a Gryffindor. Bravery and all that.

“I hope it’s Angelina, to be honest,” Hermione says when they take a break and head to the Great Hall for lunch. She swipes some toast and puts a few slices of blue cheese on it after buttering the toast. Harry doesn’t know why she likes blue cheese so much but he’s more of a fan of regular cheddar so it’s not like he has any ‘taste’ to judge her cheese preference. “She’s smart, resourceful, and definitely a better choice than most of the ones we’ve seen all ready.”

“She’d be amazing,” Ron agrees, stuffing a ham and cheese roll into his mouth. He chews it quickly and only spits a couple of crumbs when he continues to speak. “It’d be awesome to have a Gryffindor Champion.”

“Yeah,” Harry says. He’s more partial to the cheese and onion toasties than the rolls Ron prefers. They’re really, really nice. He could probably eat a dozen of them and die happy from the joy of it. “She’d be great.”

“Just so long as we don’t get a Slytherin.” Ron shudders. “They’d cheat.”

“Cheating is a traditional part of the Tournament, actually,” Hermione says and both boys look at her. “I checked in the library this morning and found some books on wizarding tournaments.”

Harry smiles. “Of course you did.”

Hermione smiles back at him. “Anyway,” she continues, “there’s numerous accounts of cheating during the Tournament, almost from the moment it began around the fourteenth century. Some of the most dramatic accusations included one champion being accused of bribing all of the judges into being given top points for all three challenges only to die at the end because they weren’t actually good enough to win the final challenge.”

“What was the final challenge?”

Hermione bit her lip. “Fighting a dragon and killing it.”

“What?” Ron spits out the piece of roll he had been chewing. “That’s insane! And illegal! Dragons are protected creatures! Charlie told me they have been for over two hundred years now!”

“Yes, but this was three-hundred years ago,” Hermione explains. “Actually, it may have had something to do with the protected status for dragons being established. There was certainly a lot of public uproar according to the author.”

“Well, at least something good came out of it,” Harry says and Ron snorts.

“Come on, I bet the ‘puffs will be next. I wanna see who puts their names in.” Ron grabs another ham and cheese roll from the table. “Wanna make a bet?” He asks Harry as he and Hermione stand and follow Ron out of the Great Hall.

“Nope,” Harry replies cheerfully. “I’m not that stupid.”

“Damn.” Ron grins at him. “Worth a try.”

“Is that Fred and George? What are they doing? They’re not old enough, are they?” Hermione asks suddenly, staring at the goblet as they re-enter the room and sit back down on the benches.

“Nah, their birthday’s soon but they’re still underage,” Ron answers, frowning. “Hey, what are you two doing?” He shouts at his brothers who look at them.

“Ronnkins!” Fred exclaims, grinning. “We’re about to do something amazing—”

“—absolutely inspired—” George butts in.

“—indeed we are George!” Fred continues. “We’re about to take these lovely potions—” both of them hold up a vial of blue-green liquid each “—and put our names in for the Tournament!”

“You’re not old enough, though,” Harry points out and George scoffs.

“Oh Harry,” George says, “these are ageing potions. Once we take them we’ll be just over seventeen and eligible—”

“—and Dumbledore’s age-line won’t stop us then!” Fred cuts in, pointing at the line around the goblet. “Wish us luck?” He asks and Harry shrugs.

“Sure.”

Hermione frowns. “I don’t think that’s how ageing potions are supposed to work,” she says to Ron and Harry who both shrug.

“Well, if they do, then two more potential champions for Gryffindor,” Harry points out and Ron nods. “And if they don’t, then we get to see what happens when someone underage tries to cross the line.”

Ron grins. “I bet they’ll turn into toads or something.”

Harry shakes his head. “Nah, this is Dumbledore,” he says, “I think it’ll have something to do with age or something like that.”

“Bet on it?”

Harry laughs. “No, Ron.”

Ron sighs. “One day, Harry,” he says, “one day I’ll get you to bet on something and I’ll win and it’ll be great.”

Harry gives his best friend an amused look. “Good luck with that,” he says and Ron elbows him, grinning.

A loud whoop from Fred—or George—draws the trios attention back to the twins. Both of them are standing over the age-line, grinning like the mad maniacs they are.

“Oh yes!” Fred exclaims reaching out to drop a piece of parchment, presumably with his name on it, into the goblet. “Come to-”

A sound like a gong being struck echoes through the room at the exact same moment as the age-line glows gold and the twins are flung away from the goblet. When they land, their ginger hair is silver-white and as long as Dumbledore’s.

They’re also sporting matching beards that reach down to their waist.

“That was unexpected,” Hermione says.

Harry glances at Ron. Ron glances at Harry. They both look at Hermione. Hermione looks back.

They all burst into fits of laughter, leaning against each other as they watch Fred and George climb to their feet and compare beards.

Dumbledore shows up whilst the trio are still laughing and escorts the twins to madam Pomfrey with little fanfare; though Fred and George are doing their double-act routine and encouraging the headmaster to join them so they can be a trio.

Harry laughs harder and has no idea that this is going to be the last moment of light-hearted fun without the pressure of doing the impossible for the rest of the year.

* * *

The Great Hall is buzzing with activity as every student from all three schools wait with baited breath for the goblet to reveal the champions. Harry sits between Ron and Hermione, his plate mostly clear of the Halloween dinner. Ron still has a chicken drumstick and mash on his plate while Hermione, naturally, has a clear plate and a goblet of pumpkin juice she’s taking patient sips from.

Up at the staff table, Harry can see his Aunt and Uncle, talking quietly to each other. They look like they’re waiting for something to happen. Harry’s not sure if it’s something _good_ or something _bad_ because both of them look kind of worried. That probably means it’s something _not great_ for them but beneficial to one of their sides.

Harry has a sinking feeling that it’s related to the Tournament.4

Dumbledore stands, drawing attention to himself like he usually does, and begins the sort of boring speech about the “commencing of the Triwizard Tournament” that Harry only half-listens to. He’s not interested in Dumbledore; the other judges for the Tournament and Hogwarts staff are more interesting to watch than the headmaster in his weirdly coloured robes.

Snape, as usual, looks supremely unimpressed with everything going on. He’s scowling more than usual and Harry’s not entirely sure why, considering the year so far hasn’t been anywhere near as chaotic as previous years. Maybe he’s just having a bad day, Harry doesn’t know: their potions classes have been, largely, silent since Uncle Aziraphale apparently said something to Snape5.

McGonagall is difficult to read unless she’s caught off-guard. As such, Harry can’t get much from the sight of the Transfiguration Professor watching the students with that sharp, attentive gaze she has. She picks up on the smallest thing; Aunt Crowley explained once that she did the same, for movement, because of her serpentine nature. Harry figures then that, since McGonagall is an animagus, she notices movement quicker than most owing to her being able to turn into a cat. He should ask Hermione about it, she’d know more on the topic than Harry.

Hagrid looks like he’s bouncing in his seat. The grin on the assistant professor’s face is as wide as it ever is, making him look years younger; even with the beard and hair. Harry finds himself smiling just looking at Hagrid.  The assistant CoMC professor has really come on as a teacher since Aunt Crowley decided to take him on; Harry has a feeling that Hagrid could teach the classes without Aunt Crowley at all, but that’d leave her out of a job.

Though, considering the stuff she knows, there’s other positions at Hogwarts she could take. The defence post, for example. Although Remus- Professor Lupin is still teaching, Harry has a feeling that won’t be for much longer. He thinks Lupin might miss being around Sirius a bit too much to keep on teaching at Hogwarts. It’d open a position that Aunt Crowley could take over if that ends up being the case, but that’s all possibility and guess-work for the future.

Speaking of Lupin, the defence professor seems to be more focused on the headmaster of Durmstrang than anything else. Harry’s not sure what the expression on his face is, but there’s something distinctly predatory about the lycan’s expression. Harry wonders what Karkakoff has done to deserve that sort of look. It’s certainly not an expression Lupin has ever sported except when Pettigrew has been brought up in discussions.

Huh, Harry thinks, maybe it’s something to do with Pettigrew? Whatever it could be, Harry doesn’t know, but now he’s curious. He decides that he’ll ask Lupin later about the look he’s levelling at Karkakoff.

Dumbledore claps his hands, drawing Harry’s attention back to the headmaster and the goblet he’s stood behind on the stage.

“And now!” Dumbledore proclaims. “It is time to reveal the Champions!”

The flames in the goblet—something Harry notes are higher now, flicking up and over the rim of the goblet like they’re make of gas heavier than air that’s bubbling up and over the rim—flare the brightest shade of blue Harry’s ever seen flames turn. The very edge of the flames almost sparkles with a golden-yellow flash that collects and spits up into the air, becoming a piece of parchment Dumbledore catches as it flutters down.

“The Champion for Durmstrang is… Viktor Krum!”

Cheering from the Durmstrang students seated at the Slytherin table is mixed with the applause from students from Hogwarts and some from Beauxbatons. Krum rises and half-smiles at his fellow schoolmates, before he heads to Dumbledore.

“I knew it would be you, Victor!” Karkakoff shouts over the sound of applause for Krum whose half-smile falls away into the familiar scowl the wizarding world sees of him. It seems to Harry that Krum doesn’t like his headmaster; not surprising if Karkakoff is a sycophant.

“The door to the left, please,” Dumbledore tells the Durmstrang Champion who nods and leaves the hall through the door to Dumbledore’s left, just behind the staff table.

It’s the chamber the Champions are to wait in for the judges and their first task.

“Now for the next Champion.”

Again, the goblet flares to life, flames and parchment and the name of Beauxbatons Champion is revealed in moments. Dumbledore holds the parchment, looking at the students with a smile Harry absolutely doesn’t trust in general, and calls for Fleur Delacour to join Krum.

The French girl, blonde and tall, smiles and leaves her classmates at the Ravenclaw table. Her classmates seem split between happy for her and resentful; some seemingly bursting into tears which Harry has a strong feeling is being done for the sake of Theatrics rather than genuine emotion. Though, since he’s never actually _talked_ to any of the Beauxbatons students, he can’t be certain.

Now it’s the important moment. Well, for Hogwarts.

Now it’s time for _their_ Champion to be declared.

Every Hogwarts student in the Great Hall seem to freeze in anticipation as the flames of the goblet flare, the blue almost iridescent in the candlelight. The golden-amber edges of the flames coalesce into the parchment bearing the name of the Hogwarts Champion.

Who is…

“Cedric Diggory.”

The Hall is silent for a split-second, long enough to blink or exhale, and then it _explodes._ Every single student at the Hufflepuff table is _bellowing_ in shocked delight as Cedric Diggory rises and makes his way to the chamber with the other Champions.

It’s absolutely wild and Harry is grinning in honest surprise and delight because the Hufflepuffs just _don’t go wild like this_. Obviously they’ve all missed something very important about the Hufflepuffs.

Ron looks at Harry and Hermione. “Well,” he says, blinking, “ _that’s_ kinda surprising.”

It’s only because they’re sat at Gryffindor table and they’re facing each other that Harry and Hermione can even _hear_ Ron over the din from the Hufflepuffs. They’re honestly deafening. Diggory isn’t even half way to the side-chamber, his housemates slowing his progress by bodily throwing themselves at him and absolutely smothering him in praise.

Harry knows how Diggory feels, considering that sort of full-on we’re-going-to-literally-bury-you-in-back-slaps-and-cheers is normal etiquette after a Quidditch match. Diggory is the Hufflepuff seeker, he knows what it’s like too. It’s probably the only reason he’s actually able to progress toward the side-chamber without waiting an hour for the sheer insanity of joy to wear off his housemates.

Ironically enough, or perhaps not ironically, the Goblet ought to be dying down now as Diggory makes his way to the chamber. It should be starting to splutter and the flames die; deep, vibrant blue turning to softer reds and oranges before flickering out.

Instead, the flames of the Goblet flare again, up and up into the air above them all. It draws attention from Diggory somewhat, as people realise what the flames mean. Quiet floods the Great Hall as everyone witnesses a _fourth_ piece of parchment explode from the flames.

Dumbledore seems to catch it on reflex, the headmaster looks honestly surprised by the fourth parchment. He looks down at the parchment, frowning and Harry suddenly has a very, very bad feeling.

His stomach has sunk somewhere near the Mariana Trench6.

“Harry Potter.”

Harry stares at Dumbledore. Dumbledore looks at him directly and stares right back.

“Harry Potter,” the headmaster repeats again. He sounds mildly frustrated. Like this is a bit of an inconvenience for him.

Harry could laugh. If it’s an _inconvenience_ for Dumbledore then it’s an outright _disaster_ for Harry.

“Come up here, Harry.”

He’s breathing, Harry knows he is. He can hear himself drawing breaths in. They’re, perhaps, not decent breaths but he’s drawing them in. And letting them out. That’s an important part of breathing.

Ron—Harry thinks it’s Ron, he can’t really tell right now—shakes him. Someone is talking to him but Harry’s just breathing and staring at Dumbledore.

Dumbledore holding a piece of parchment with _his name on it._

A sharp sting on his hand makes Harry jump. Everything returns to what it was. It’s Ron who’s shaking him, looking increasingly more and more concerned. Hermione is the one who it appears _pinched_ him on the hand. She’s frowning in that Very Concerned Way she does when she’s beyond worried about something.

Harry realises her worry is for him.

Because his name just came out of the Goblet.

He’s a Champion.

_How_ , he thinks, blinking rapidly. How can he be a Champion? There’s only three schools. Ergo, only three Champions. This makes no sense.

“Harry Potter, up here please!”

Dumbledore’s voice makes Harry’s head snap around and he realises it’s not been long since his name was called. Probably not even two minutes, even if the whole of reality seemed very muted and slow during those shock-filled two minutes. The headmaster’s voice brooks no argument. Harry has to go up there.

He stands, slowly. Ron’s hand falls away at the very last moment, but the concern from his friends doesn’t leave as Harry begins to walk toward Dumbledore. He can see Diggory still in the Hall, near the chamber.

The real Hogwarts Champion looks both confused and angry, with a heaping of frowny… worry? Maybe. Is he worried about competition? Harry’s famous, yeah, but it’s not like he’s a match for a seventh year. The Tournament is for those of age. Harry isn’t of age. He’s well out-classed. Diggory can’t be worried about Harry being a  _threat_ can he?7

Harry reaches Dumbledore and the Goblet. The headmaster looks at him over the rim of his half-moon glasses. “Go join the other Champions.”

Other Champions.

Harry blinks. 

Guess he’s actually a Champion then. Damn.

He looks over at Diggory who is sort of scowling but also not. The sixth year seems to be watching Harry closely. Harry wonders if he’s registered how much paler Harry’s skin is right now; he’s Indian sure but he can pale like anyone else, that rubbish about only white people turning paler when shocked is rubbish. Maybe Diggory can see the fear in Harry’s eyes, because, and this is important, Harry is afraid.

He has no idea what is happening. How it’s happened. Or what is  _going to happen_ . He’s completely adrift.

Diggory waits for him, though, at the entrance to the side-chamber. The sixth year opens the door and Harry stares at it for a moment before Diggory rolls his eyes.

“Go, Potter,” Diggory says and there’s something in the sixth year’s voice that sounds a little bit like amusement. It catches Harry off-guard and he stumbles forward, into the side-chamber with Diggory following after him.

The moment they’re out of the Great Hall, the entire student body of three schools  _lose their minds_ . But since they’re in the side-chamber, none of the Champions are aware of the absolute madness happening in the Great Hall.

It gives them all a little bit of time to take in that Harry is  _another_ Champion, completely shell-shocked, and that Diggory is a bit of a mother-hen even when he’s annoyed and uncertain about something.

“Sit down, Potter.”

Harry sis down.

“What is this?” The Beauxbatons Champion asks, frowning. Fleur Delacour is even more beautiful up close but Harry’s a little bit busy still being in shock to really appreciate the physical embodiment of Aphrodite in the room. “Why is this boy here?”

Diggory looks at Delacour. “Extra Champion,” he answers. Harry blinks at him.

“What?” Krum sounds quieter than Harry expects him to. Less… harsh. Harry looks at the Durmstrang Champion and world-class Seeker. Krum looks back at Harry, frowning. “How is that possible?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Harry says. Diggory looks down at him, from where he’s standing, the sixth year looks a lot taller than Harry already thought he was. It reminds Harry of memories he’d rather not remember. 

“You’re not of age.” Harry looks at Krum. The Bulgarian’s frown has deepened. “You could not have crossed the age-line.”

“I didn’t put my name in.” Harry looks at the Three Champions. _Other_ Champions. “I didn’t- I don’t want to be _in_ this competition!”

“Why not?” Delacour asks. She’s frowning too. Harry doesn’t know if she believes he didn’t put his name in or not. But at least she’s curious enough to let Harry actually explain himself. “Winning ensures fame and fortune.”

“I already _have_ fame and fortune!” Harry exclaims. “I don’t want _more_ of it!”

Maybe it’s a bit of a foreign concept to most people but Harry isn’t exactly a fan of his popularity in the British Wizarding World. He’s famous for being an orphan. How is that something to enjoy? Why exactly would he want  _more_ fame when it’ll always be associated— _tainted_ —with the knowledge that his parents were murdered because of him?

Diggory looks at Harry and seems, maybe, to be figuring a bit of that out because the sixth year grimaces. 

“I just wanted to watch the Tournament,” Harry says quietly. “I don’t want to be part of it.”

The three Champions look at each other, seemingly making a decision amongst themselves which probably isn’t a good thing considering they’re meant to be competing against each other, but whatever. Some things are more important than competitiveness.

Things like kids being put in danger.

“I believe you, Potter,” Diggory finally says and Harry looks at him in surprise. “You looked like you forgot how to breathe when the headmaster said your name.”

Harry doesn’t want to admit that breathing was the  _only_ thing he had been able to do that time. Thinking and emoting was very much beyond him at the time. Sort of still is, actually. 

“You are in this competition but it is unfair,” Delacour comments. She’s got her arms crossed over her chest, and there’s a rather fierce expression on her face. “To you, yes, but to us as well. We will be competing against you and you are a child.”

Harry’s pride bristles at being called a child but, in comparison to three  _adults_ he is. Because all three Champions are of age. They’re legally adults. Harry  _is_ a child in this scenario. 

That realisation makes the whole being-in-the-Tournament thing worse.

He’s at such a disadvantage it’s not even possible to plot it on a chart8. 

The  _four_ Triwizard Champions have resolved the drama of another Champion in a calm and collected manner, so  _naturally_ the calm in the room is completely shattered by the appearance of the so-called authority figures bursting into the room.

Dumbledore literally grabs Harry’s arms and half-shouts at him if he put his name in the Goblet.

It’s as far as the headmaster gets before he’s bodily hauled away from Harry, who finds himself being held by his Aunt. Uncle Aziraphale pulled Dumbledore off him with strength the headmaster obviously hadn’t expected.

“You grab him again like that and I’ll take your handsss,” Aunt Crowley hisses at Dumbledore, holding Harry to her side and glaring at the Hogwarts headmaster. 

“He has cheated! Hogwarts has cheated!” The headmistress of Beauxbatons shouts in anger. Harry flinches back from the volume and Aunt Crowley curls herself around him more, protective and angry at the same time. He has a sudden flash back to the time in his second year when he witnessed Crowley become a giant snake to save him. The reminder is reassuring and Harry leans against his Aunt’s side.

“Hogwarts has seen fit to assign itself a second Champion, it seems,” the headmaster of Durmstrang drawls. He seems haughty but he’s also avoiding being anywhere near Lupin who is damned-near growling at him silently. Harry realises his second godfather is standing next to Aunt Crowley, showing clearly that he’s on Harry’s side. “Obviously by tampering with the Goblet.”

That bolsters the boy’s heart more than any words could in the moment. 

“The Goblet can’t be tampered with,” Diggory says, “it’s nearly a millennium old. No one has been able to figure out how it works or how to control it.”

Diggory is right and it seems none of the other adults in the room appreciate him  _being right_ . No surprise really. They want to be outraged and angry and all that. It reassures them when they can flap their proverbial wings and soothe their ruffled feathers by lashing out with wild accusations they know, logically, are absurd.

Of course, in other circumstances, those angry adults could rant and rave and throw accusations about with reckless abandon. Unfortunately, for them, there’s an angel and demon in the room and Harry knows neither of them will let anyone blame him.

His Aunt and Uncle are absolutely  _vicious_ when it comes to him. It makes Harry feel loved.

“Kids’ right. Damned thing can’t be messed with. Not by anyone who isn’t old enough to control their magic enough.” Aunt Crowley looks at the room. Her eyes are sharp and extra golden-amber. They seem to really drain the wind out of the sails of the judges. “It’s older than the Tournament itself. A Confundus would have to be cast, several times, and no one whose not of age and isn’t trained to withstand the side effects of repeated Confundi charms would be able to do it.”

“And we should believe you?”

Karkakoff obviously has some spine buried somewhere in those furs he wears, but also a brazen arrogance that definitely will get him killed. Aunt Crowley is already angry. It wouldn’t take much. It really wouldn’t.

“Believe the expert on Dark Objects and Cursed Items,” Aunt Crowley says flatly. She points at Lupin who sighs. “He agrees with me and so will anyone with a braincell between their ears.”

If the room at large realises that Aunt Crowley just insulted everyone in there except the Champions, herself, Uncle Aziraphale, and Lupin, then it takes them long enough that Dumbledore is able to step in and call attention to Barty Crouch Senior.

“Mister Crouch,” Dumbledore says, “is there anything to be done here?”

Crouch frowns. “No.” The head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation looks directly at Harry. “Mister Potter will have to compete. The Goblet is magically binding.”

“He can’t forfeit?” Delacour asks. She looks at Harry, her expression conveying that she hopes he can; for his sake. 

“His magic will be sundered if he tries to avoid competing,” Crouch replies and Delacour pales.

Obviously none of the Champions knew  _that_ aspect of the Tournament.

Harry shivers.

“There’s nothing in the rules of the actual Goblet that says he can’t have help,” Uncle Aziraphale pipes up and Harry looks at him gratefully. “In fact, there’s nothing that says _any_ of the Champions aren’t allowed to be helped or given support from others. Only additional, Ministry and Tournament-added rules.”

Krum, Delacour, and Diggory all look at Uncle Aziraphale in surprise. 

“Cheating is not permitted in the Tournament,” Crouch says sharply. “Any Champion who cheats will be-”

“Kicked out of the Tournament by you lot, we know,” Aunt Crowley cuts him off and Crouch glares at her. “Basically killing them, by the way. Sundering someone of their magic is a death sentence to you magical lot. But the Goblet doesn’t give a damn about cheating in the Tournament. All it cares about is the names it spits out competing and one of them winning.”

Aunt Crowley looks at Uncle Aziraphale who nods. “No actual cheating for Harry, but if he asks us for help, we’re giving him it. Same with those three there,” she jerks her head at the three Champions to her right who look rightly surprised. “Don’t care what you lot say or do, that’s what  _we’re_ doing. You want these kids to survive? Do the damned same and get over your bureaucratic anal-retentiveness before someone else gets dead.”

Harry gets to see the absolutely livid expression on Barty Crouch Seniors face just before his Aunt snaps her fingers and she, Harry, and Uncle Aziraphale disappear from the side-chamber and appear in their family chambers.

It’s there that Harry spends the rest of the night, wilfully ignoring the fact that Gryffindor is probably celebrating Harry’s Champion status. He has no desire to celebrate this. He’s tired of nearly dying all the time. It’s really, really distracting.

Hopefully he’ll survive the Tournament and the rest of the school year won’t be too traumatising.

_Yeah right._

* * *

* * *

1This _is_ Dumbledore, after all. He’s a bit of an attention seeker. Likes to have the attention on him, but only when _he_ wants it to be. Can’t have anyone noticing his flaws that are being obscured by his florescent nightmare robes billowing behind him as he prances to the next disaster.

2Cassius Warrington, according to Ron’s commentary, would be the absolute _last_ option for Hogwarts Champion. “The Goblet wouldn’t pick him even if he was the only one who put his name in!” Ron insists when Harry laughs. “Have you seen the way he plays Quidditch? He’s bloody awful and a right cheat!”

3It’s not even a competition. Hermione outclasses everyone in their year _and the year above_. Not that she’ll ever believe it. Imposter Syndrome is a horrible thing.

4The sinking feeling is accurate.

5 Ha rry had asked his Uncle what exactly he’d said but the angel had been determinedly silent on the topic, distracting Harry with all sorts of things to the point where Harry finally stopped asking. His best bet is Snape said something about Aunt Crowley or maybe Harry and his Uncle took exception to it. 

6The Mariana Trench, for those who don’t know, is the deepest trench on the Earth with a maximum known depth of almost 11,000 metres. The Empire State Building, to put this depth in context, is 443 metres tall. It would take 25 Empire State Buildings, stacked on top of each other, to breach the surface of the ocean at the deepest point of the Mariana Trench. This, in relation to the story, is (metaphorically-speaking) where Harry’s stomach has sank to when watching Dumbledore looking down at that piece of parchment. Understandably, considering what is about to happen.

7Harry doesn’t quite realise but he’s not exactly _bad_ at stuff. He gets good grades, is smart, reads a fair amount, and has access to very educated people all-year round. Diggory would take him seriously even if he were just famous and had none of the other stuff. Of course, the rumours of Harry’s Aunt being a dark-witch means that the Hufflepuff also is wary of Harry knowing Dark Magic and using it, but Harry doesn’t realise that. Bless him.

8Later on, Harry actually asks Hermione to plot how disadvantaged he is compared to the other Champions on a chart. It’s actually pretty interesting to consider. In terms of basic magical ability, aka strength, Harry’s pretty good. He’s above the average for magicians of his age. Charms and spells is a bit shaky but there’s a core foundation thanks to Uncle Aziraphale’s books that means he’s not too bad compared to others in his year. His defensive magic, however, is definitely _well above_ the bell curve. Hermione actually spends half-an-hour arguing with him over his defence skills. Harry only relents when she points out he can create a Patronus which is sixth and seventh year magic; and that he learnt it during the summer from his Aunt and Uncle, in less time that most sixth and seventh years. So, objectively speaking, Harry isn’t at too much of a disadvantage except in terms of actual physical strength and his height in comparison to the other Champions. Ron spends ten minutes laughing when Hermione essentially points out that Harry’s short. Harry jinxes Ron’s shoes laces together in retaliation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RIP to Harry lmao.
> 
> Comments and Kudos sustain me, as always.


	5. Planning and Fruition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins with the First Task.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised this chapter last month rip. My bad. But yeah, enjoy this.

Harry Potter is the fourth Champion of the Triwizard Tournament, the second Hogwarts Champion, and _absolutely_ supported by the other Champions because they’re not fickle idiots who think a fourteen-year-old _child_ can outwit an old-as-balls magical item.[1] It’s refreshing for Harry to have actual support from the Champions; thinking he’d be lambasted by them and everyone else in the school (Durmstrang and Beauxbatons included) for somehow outwitting said old-as-balls magical item and competing in a tournament where he could _die._

Fourteen-year-old children shouldn't be at risk of getting dead because of external forces screwing with their lives.

The morning after the selection of the Champions dawns and Harry is woken by the sound of birds outside his window instead of his dorm-mates. It's one of the benefits of being able to stay in the family chamber with his Aunt and Uncle; the peaceful wake up instead of the chaotic, grumbling mess of teenage boys intent on being brain-dead until the second lesson has started. But now it’s morning and Harry has lessons. There’s no escaping the rest of the school any longer; what they’re going to say or do. He can only hope the actual Champions will have said something to their groups—though Diggory can’t exactly convince the whole of Hogwarts that Harry didn’t cheat. Be nice if he could, like. 

But the Slytherins sure as hell won’t believe the Hufflepuff sixth year. Not for anything. Slytherins who all follow their head of house's example in regards to Harry, incidentally. 

Harry drops his head back into his pillow with a groan. His first class is _Potions_. Maybe his Aunt and Uncle will let him skive off today?

"Time to get up, Harry," Uncle Aziraphale says as he opens Harry’s door and pokes his head in. "Don’t want to miss breakfast!"

_Breakfast is evil_ , Harry decides in the time it takes him to drag himself to the table in the chambers and sees his Aunt and Uncle there. Uncle Aziraphale is, as usual, happily tucking into a full English Breakfast—that happens to also have a _lot_ of spices in it if the smell is anything to go by—while Aunt Crowley fiddles with a glass of wine and watches him eating. Harry joins them silently, grabbing toast and some sausages to make a sausage butty. It’s good enough to tide him over until lunch, but it’s also too much considering what happened last night.

He’s nervous already and dreading seeing the rest of the school.

Hopefully Ron and Hermione won’t be angry with him over this Tournament nonsense. Hopefully.

"You’ll be fine." Aunt Crowley’s voice draws Harry’s attention from his food. She’s looking at him now, watching him, and Harry straightens up from the half-hunched position he’s fallen into without realising. "Those other Champions are on your side. Students will take their lead."

"Not the Slytherins," Harry points out and he’s right. Aunt Crowley knows he’s right because she grimaces. "They’re going to say I cheated and put my name in. They probably have been all night."

"Probably."

"So, what should I do?"

Surely, Aunt Crowley has some idea of how to handle the Slytherins. She’s a demon. She’s got to.

"Ignore ‘em."

Harry blinks. "What?"

"Just ignore ‘em," Aunt Crowley repeats. She continues when Harry stares at her. "They’re bullies. They’re going to try and bully you and put you down because it makes them feel good. Reacting just gives them something to keep harping on about. If you want them to leave you alone, then don’t react."

"What if they attack me?"

"That’s different. You break their bloody nose," Aunt Crowley says and Harry grins. She sounds so fierce. "But name calling, accusations of cheating and all that? They’ll do it to get a rise. Don’t give them one."

"So, do nothing, then?"

Aunt Crowley snorts. "No, just don’t react to them." She smirks. "I’m not saying nothing about getting your own back at a later point, am I?"

Harry’s grin grows. "All’s fair in war, and all that?"

" _Exactly_."

"I’ll get detention if I do though, won’t I?" Harry asks. He doesn’t need to really, he knows he would. The school has a rule about fighting. Every school has a rule about fighting. One that is rarely enforced as honestly as they say it is.

"Probably," Crowley answers and Harry appreciates that she doesn’t lie to him. "But don’t let that stop you defending yourself. You should _always_ defend yourself, Harry," she says, and there’s an intensity to her voice. " _Always_."

Potions isn't as bad as Harry expected it to be. Snape is his usual snide self, though, oddly enough, Harry gets the sense that Snape is displeased with the Tournament as a whole rather than Harry being a Champion. He's not sure how he gets that sense, but that's what he gets and he's not in any hurry to question it. Not when he's got Malfoy throwing minor insults at him and who seems sort of fascinated with Harry actually being a Champion. 

Aunt Crowley once told him that Malfoy was jealous of Harry. Harry thinks that's bloody stupid; who'd be jealous of him? 

"Jealousy doesn't always make sense, kiddo," Aunt Crowley said at the time, ruffling Harry's hair like he was ten again. She didn't elaborate any further and Harry had been distracted by his Uncle storming in the bookshop complaining about the utterly _incomprehensible_ policy decisions of heaven. Naturally, that had been more interesting than contemplating Draco bloody Malfoy. 

"Bet you think you're special, Potter," Malfoy hisses at Harry when the blonde boy is at the ingredients cupboard at the same time as Harry. "Getting chosen as a Champion. Couldn't let someone else get all the attention for once, I bet." 

Harry snorts quietly, mindful of Snape in the classroom. "Malfoy," he says slowly, giving the Slytherin a Look. "You seem more interested in getting _my_ attention than in picking the right ingredients." He looks at the monkshood Malfoy is holding. "Might want to swap that out for dandelions, Malfoy."

Malfoy blushes a bright shade of pink and opens his mouth to say something but Harry is already turning away and heading back to his cauldron, leaving the Slytherin floundering. 

Harry feels strangely pleased with this development, even if Ron looks at him funny for the rest of potions. Apparently smiling in Snape's classroom is Disturbing if you're not a Slytherin. 

* * *

The first time Harry comes across any of the other Champions after becoming one himself, it's because Dumbledore and the other judges have requested their presence. Standing in the headmaster’s office, between Diggory and Delacour, Harry has no idea what this is about. Judging by the way the other Champions are looking about, neither do they. 

So none of them are in trouble, probably. 

"Welcome," Dumbledore says with a smile Harry doesn't trust in the slightest. "I imagine you're curious as to why you've been called here?" 

Diggory nods. "Yes, headmaster."

"Well, mister Diggory," he says, "it has come to our attention that you have all missed the introduction of the security for the Tournament." Dumbledore sighs. "An oversight on our part."

Harry blinks. The Tournament has _security_. He has a vivid mental image of supermarket security, but the wizarding equivalent. Probably just as tired of idiocy and being made to bother people trying to survive because of corporate overlords—as Aunt Crowley describes them. 

"This is Alastor Moody."

Dumbledore draws their attention to someone standing with the judges that none of them seem to have noticed. Harry doesn't understand _how_ he didn't notice them, considering the very obvious peg-leg—like a pirate—and eyepatch on a scarred face. Judging by the way Diggory and Delacour both tense on either side of Harry, they didn't notice Moody either and are bothered by that fact too. 

Krum, behind Harry, actually takes a slight step forward, making Harry feel like the Bulgarian is one step from pulling Harry behind his back. It's a strangely nice idea; reassures him that the other Champions don't hate Harry for being an interloper and seem to be protective of him instead. 

"The ex-auror?" Diggory asks. His voice sounds tight, like he's really uncomfortable with this but is too polite to say that aloud. 

"Retired, yes," Dumbledore answers, smiling genially at them. "Alastor has agreed to act as security for the Tournament, alongside several other retired and trainee aurors who are unavailable for this introduction. Rest assured, you will meet them at the First Task, however."

Harry hopes the rest of the Tournament security are in better shape than Moody. The retired auror looks like he might be in need of Madam Pomfrey's tender mercies soon enough. 

"You received your clue as to your First Task, of course," Dumbledore continues to talk and Harry tunes him out because the headmaster is just repeating the same stuff that he and mister Crouch said the night they were selected. He's more interested in finding out if any of the trainee aurors acting as security are related to any of his friends.

He's sure Sirius said something about a cousin who was an auror in training or something like that. He'll have to write to him to find out.

Dumbledore sends them on their way and the Champions head to the Great Hall for an early lunch. None of the older Champions seem at all concerned with dragging Harry along with them _for_ said lunch; even when he awkwardly points out that he needs to get back to Transfiguration. 

"McGonagall will be _more_ annoyed at you showing back up than missing the rest of the class," Diggory says with absolute certainty and Harry Knows there's a story there with the sixth-year Hufflepuff. "Besides, you're more likely to get what you want from the kitchens if you're early to lunch."

"Okay," is Harry's response because he can't exactly argue with Diggory about this without looking like he doesn't want to be around the other Champions; all of whom are apparently protective as heck of him. "I never do get enough sausages at the Gryffindor table," he says thoughtfully. 

Diggory laughs. 

"You should try some French cuisine, Harry," Delacour tells him and Harry nods. " _Coquilles Saint Jacques_ is wonderful!" 

Harry has absolutely no idea what Coquilles Saint Jacques is but it sounds exceptionally fancy and he wonders if his Uncle has heard of it.[2]

Krum snorts. " _Shishcheta_ is better," he says, giving Delacour a look that Harry figures is amusement on the Bulgarian seeker. "And _Sirene Po Shoski_. My grandmother makes it best but the kitchens here are good too."

Harry has the distinct feeling that he and Diggory have entered into a battleground that Krum and Delacour seem determined to make them pick a side on. The side-look Diggory gives him cements that feeling and Harry gives the Hufflepuff an amused look; one that Diggory returns. 

"Bacon butties?" Diggory half-whispers at Harry, giving him a cheeky smile that Harry returns. 

"Definitely."

Delacour and Krum can argue over food all they like, Harry and Diggory are happy with whatever won't get them chased by a foreign witch or wizard for not liking their home cuisine. 

Though Harry _does_ have a weakness for croissants. 

* * *

Aziraphale and Crowley waste no time in arranging for the Champions to meet up one evening in an empty classroom when they learn about the First Task. Dumbledore, in his infinite idiocy, had tried to stop them from speaking to the Champions—citing some nonsense agreement between the Schools that prevented staff of the hosting school from helping the Champions. This time it was Aziraphale who snapped. 

Albus too-many-middle-names Dumbledore finds himself standing in the middle of the Bastille when it doesn't exist anymore. It leaves the headmaster in quite the quandary for a few hours before he makes use of that gods awful wand of his to gain freedom.[3]

"Bet you're wondering why you're all here, right?" Crowley asks the Champions, Harry included, and is obviously disappointed when they shake their heads. 

"First Task. Obviously," Krum states as a fact which is true and Crowley seems even more put out by the Bulgarians blunt delivery. "You said you would help us all."

"You weren't exactly subtle about it, either," Delacour adds and Aziraphale bites back a smile at the way the French Champion gives Crowley an amused look. 

"Not sure I like the idea of cheating, but not dying is definitely more important than not cheating, not going to lie," Diggory says, shrugging when Crowley looks at him as well. 

Aziraphale finds the way the demon pouts to be _terribly adorable_. 

"Yes, well," Aziraphale says, stepping up beside Crowley and placing a hand on her arm. "Since we're all aware of why we're here, let's continue over some nice tea and biscuits, shall we?" 

The discussion about the First Task continues along pleasantly over some tea and biscuits, rich tea of course. The Champions spend the time discussing methods of Not Dying during the task, with Aziraphale and Crowley giving them advice or suggestions here and there. One such suggestion is, for Harry, to just "shout at it really loudly like it's a naughty snake that needs to go and have a nap" which has the Champions laughing at the mental image that suggestion produces.[4]

"In the end, your best bet is to distract it somehow," Aziraphale says and the Champions nod. "Something that will keep its attention long enough for you all to obtain your goal. Preferably without harm."

"A direct attack will not work then?" Krum asks and Aziraphale bites his lip. 

"I think," the angel says slowly, "that a direct attack may cause you more problems than is worth the risk."

Krum nods. "Okay then. Distraction it is." 

Aziraphale and Crowley can't do much more for the Champions beyond some slightly underhanded protective glyphs they imbue them all with. However, the fact that they're obviously determined to not see any of them hurt, endears Harry's Aunt and Uncle to the other Champions, something fierce. 

So much so that, when the Tournament is over and done with, both angel and demon will be most surprised to receive regular correspondence from the Champions. The little packages of traditional cuisine they send for Aziraphale are _very much_ adored by the angel who _delights_ in sending back detailed reviews of each the meal.[5]

Fighting a dragon, however, isn't exactly the easiest thing for four teenagers to do, especially when it takes a dozen fully-trained dragonologists and a lot of stunners to control a dragon in a maternal rage. But, no one has ever claimed the wizarding world runs on common sense. _Lack of_ , definitely. 

It's in the best interests of everyone, really, for the dragons not to be part of the Tournament at all but, unfortunately, neither angel nor demon can change that fact at this point in time. Heaven and Hell both like the beasts; for the same reason even if their justification differs between the upper and lower spheres of existence. 

The twenty-fourth of November dawns with crisp, cold wind and a crisper, colder attitude. Crowley isn’t to blame for the attitude, nor is Aziraphale, though both wonder if the other is the cause. The attitude, actually, is simply just because November in Scotland is bloody cold and windy and the sky is a clear blue; making the cold, crisp wind, sharper and colder than it otherwise would be. The beauty of cloud-cover is it keeps heat in; like a blanket. Without the cloud, whatever warmth that could possibly exist toward the end of November is swept away into the atmosphere and replaced with chill.

Perfect for the eventual snow-fall to come in December, of course. But not so perfect for the day of the First Task; which is, incidentally, to be held outside on the grounds.

Aziraphale finds that choice to be rather appropriate, considering the dragons, but also rather inconvenient for his plans. He had intended to provide the Champions with divine blessings; the sort that he hands out regularly and Heaven never seems to keep track of when he gives them. But with the Task happening outside, Aziraphale will be forced to remain in the Staff Box rather than close to the Champions for the duration of the Task.

He will have no chance to Bless them directly. Nor, Aziraphale realises, will Crowley.

Giving them Blessings _before_ the Task may result in the Blessings working sooner than intended, or on different matters altogether. But, Aziraphale decides, sighing, it’s a risk he’s going to have to make.

If the miracle works before the Task, or even after, Aziraphale is willing to use whatever mortal magic he's managed to infuse with his own divine power if the children look to be in mortal peril.[6] Or at risk of serious harm.[7]

To witness Harry facing off against the Hungarian Horntail—reportedly the most foul-tempered dragon of the lot—is beyond nerve-wracking. Especially when Aziraphale can't tell _when_ his Blessing starts to work on the teen. For Fleur it had seen her skirt miraculously not catch alight. Victor's dragon had been just about to crush half her nest when she had suddenly tilted in the opposite direction; thereby saving the nest from damage. And Cedric had managed to create a shield charm that deflected dragon-flame when, by all rights, it should have shattered. 

But Harry, Harry's Blessing seems to not be working. Aziraphale has a horrifying moment of self-doubt, where he wonders if he missed Blessing his _own_ _child_. 

_'Oh goodness, I hope not!'_ The angel thinks, biting his lower lip as he watches Harry standing alone against a fierce drake. _'I'll never forgive myself!'_

Crowley's hand is trapped in Aziraphale's tense embrace but the demon doesn't seem concerned by it; she's gripping his hand just as tightly as they watch together, both fighting the urge to leap out of the staff box, unfurl their wings, and protect their child. Aziraphale can _feel_ Crowley's desire to do just that and, for a moment, the angel really wishes Crowley _would_ do precisely that. Orders be damned. 

Of course, by wishing so stubbornly for that, Aziraphale gets an echo of what _would_ happen if Crowley actually _did_ do so. It starts off all right, with the vague sense that Crowley's actions draw Aziraphale to act also. But then… Then the vague sense shifts. Because, logically, they would be punished for their actions. Punished and their Agreement _discovered._

Aziraphale's wings tingle with a phantom burning sensation that has him shifting them on the plane of existence they exist within. No, no, they cannot act. Not unless they have absolutely _no other option_. 

So, instead, they are paralysed by the inability to do anything save watch as Harry summons his broom—the flaming bristles leaving embers in its wake—and hissing at the Horntail in a voice far deeper than one Aziraphale has ever heard from Harry. By the grace of being one of Her Angels, Aziraphale understands Harry's words to the dragon, but they make very little sense; the distance between them and the size of the wooden coliseum causing Aziraphale to miss half of what Harry is saying. 

As far as he can figure, Harry is telling it to _fly_? What? 

Aziraphale looks at Crowley. "Is he- Crowley, is Harry doing what I think he's doing?" Aziraphale has to ask the demon because he really cannot _believe this._

Crowley glances at Aziraphale out of the corner of her eye. "Yep." The grip she has on Aziraphale's hand is tight enough to break bone if either of them were human. "He is." 

Aziraphale gaps. "I'm grounding him," he says eventually. "Ten years. For _ten years_." 

If this is Aziraphale's Blessing finally starting to work then the angel is decidedly unimpressed. He wanted his Blessing to _reduce_ the risk Harry is in, not _increase it_. 

The letter Harry receives from Sirius, the day after the Task and the subsequent celebration for all Champions Not Dying, has Aziraphale teleporting to London to shout at the Black heir. Encouraging Harry to be reckless with his safety is, for Aziraphale, the single most irresponsible thing Sirius has ever done; and Black spent a year as a dog pretending to be harmless before trying to fight two celestial beings.[8]

In the end, Harry achieves the second highest score, with Krum obtaining three points more—due to blatant favouritism by Karakoff who scores all other Champions lower, in Aziraphale’s opinion—and is hailed as being most creative with his method of obtaining the golden egg. However, his flight around Hogwarts with the Hungarian Horntail—“her name is Alida and she’s awesome!” Harry shouts, interrupting Dumbledore and making the crowd cheer—took almost an hour meaning he took the longest to actually finish the task; even with obtaining the egg within ten minutes. It is for this reason that, for the first time in nearly three-hundred-years, Aziraphale, the Guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden, Principality of Earth, _swears_.

“That is absolute bollocks,” Aziraphale declares flatly, staring directly at Dumbledore with brighter than usual blue eyes. Crowley gives a full-bodied flinch of surprise at hearing profanity from him, but Aziraphale’s main focus is the headmaster pretending at _fairness_ by punishing the youngest Champion who obtained his egg quickest and without _any_ risk of harm to the nest.

Since the entire school has never known Aziraphale to swear—raise his voice, yes; he does it relatively often when exceptionally annoyed with students not caring for the books he curates—the reaction to it is far more dramatic than it would be were it, for example, Crowley who swore. 

Harry’s Aunt is well-known for her casual profanity; all age-appropriate of course, she doesn’t use extreme profanity in front of the first years. Seventh years are as prone to cursing as Crowley is—understandably, they’re about to enter into the workplace; it’s perfectly reasonable to start cursing and not stop at that point—so when she’s teaching them, it’s profanity in every other sentence from _all_ in the classroom. 

“There’s no need to be crass,” McGonagall says but the Transfiguration professor sounds like she rather agrees with Aziraphale and is only reprimanding his use of profanity out of habit. “Though I do agree that it’s rather unfair to penalise Mister Potter.”

Unfortunately, although they are both correct, Dumbledore and the other judges don’t amend their scores and Harry remains behind Victor. Fluer and Cedric are third and fourth respectively, with one point difference, but are nine points behind Harry. It’s a close enough result that those betting on the eventual Champion are all-but frothing at the mouth. 

Aziraphale is tempted to make them _literally_ froth at the mouth when he reads the article in the Daily Prophet that evening, noting that its comments on the betting offices expectations that at least one student will be seriously maimed and/or killed before the end of the Tournament. Crowley talks him out of it. Mostly.[9]

“Congratulations, Champions,” Dumbledore says in the aftermath of the Tournament, when the Champions are back in the tent they started in. Those who have family or guardians who have arrived for the First Task are stood with their respective child; those that don’t have their school heads instead. Only Cedric and Harry have any family members present, though this doesn’t stop either of them from standing close to Fleur and Victor who seem to appreciate the gesture of solidarity. Especially in the face of Mister Diggory and Headmaster Karakakoff being… obnoxious. “You have all successfully completed the First Task of the Tournament; well done.”

Dumbledore would sound less condescending if he wasn’t standing in the centre of the tent, obviously the centre of all attention. Aziraphale is not at all impressed. Judging by the way Crowley’s lip is curling, she’s even _less_ impressed.

“You all have three months before the Second Task, which I’m sure you are all pleased about,” Dumbledore continues. “You will be expected to arrive at the Second Task by half-past-nine on the twenty-fourth of February. The golden eggs you have obtained from your dragon contains a clue as to the nature of the Second Task.” Dumbledore smiles at the Champions magnanimously. “And with that, you are free to celebrate with your friends your successful completion of the First Task.”

Three months between now and the Second Task is a long time. Long enough, Aziraphale decides, to have a bit of _fun_. Especially when he sees Rita Skeeter on the grounds, poking her nose into other people’s business. Aziraphale has never been fond of overly nosy ‘journalists’ whose purpose for being is tied up in sensationalism and exaggeration. Naturally, Rita Skeeter is not someone he appreciates anywhere near Harry. 

Perhaps he’s going to be sent a reprimand by heaven for what he does, but Aziraphale will consider it worth it, as he snaps his fingers and causes Rita Skeeter to be mysteriously transported across the United Kingdom into the dirtiest, muddiest bog Aziraphale can imagine; and making it so no amount of magic will remove the dirt. 

Crowley looks at him as they cross the lawn toward the castle, eyebrow raised. “Not that I don’t love it when you’re being a petty bastard,” she says, smirking, “but what brought that specific bout of petty bastardness about?”

Aziraphale hums innocently. “Well, I have been reading the Daily Prophet, dear,” he answers, “and I find her writing to be rather impolite.” He tilts his head. “Also, she’s rather interested in our dear boy, Harry, my dear, and I thought pre-emptive action to be wise.”

Crowley snorts. “And funny.”

“That too,” Aziraphale admits, smiling. “I trust she enjoys the peat bog she’s found herself in,” he says as innocently as only an angel who can lie to God without blinking can.

Crowley dissolves into fits of laughter.

The memo informing Aziraphale to limit his use of miracles to necessities is more than worth the sight of Crowley laughing so freely at the mental image of Rita Skeeter knee-deep in a peat bog. Most assuredly.

  
  


* * *

* * *

[1] For those who are interested, the old-as-balls magical item happens to be a Celtic cauldron that was unceremoniously grafted on to a stem and base several centuries after it was claimed by Roman wizards during the conquest of Britain. The oldest records housed in the British Ministry of Magic suggest the Triwizard Goblet was one shared by the Celtic tribes of Britain before the Roman invasions in 55 and 54 BC by Julius Caesar and the later 43 AD invasion that saw much of the Isle conquered by Rome. The Silures, Ordovices, Deceangli and Demetae of Wales shared group ownership of what would become the Goblet used for the Tournament; they referred to it as the _Coire Ansic_. Believed by the Celts to be the cauldron of The Dagda of the Tuatha Dé Danann, the cauldron possess multiple abilities that are not—according to the small amount of research carried out on the Goblet—harnessed in a beneficial manner for the British wizarding population. As The Dagda is a god believed to have power over life and death, associated with fertility, manliness, strength, magic, and wisdom, as well as being able to control the seasons, research on the Goblet suggests that rather than using it as the Roman Empire did to decide Gladiatorial combat arrangements—an act not dissimilar to the use of the Goblet for the selecting of Champions for the Triwizard Tournament—the Goblet should instead be utilised for medical research and treatment. Naturally, considering the British Ministry of Magic and its lack of common sense and general intelligence, this research is ignored and the Goblet used to provide a lineup for a Tournament that can kill teenagers. Wonderful.

[2] Of course, considering the fact that Aziraphale has a quite irrational dislike of all things French, that is probably unlikely. Funnily enough, although she doesn't necessarily eat—need or want—Crowley _has_ heard of _Coquilles Saint Jacques_. She helped name it. 

[3] Aziraphale does take a vindictive pleasure in temporarily rebuilding the Bastille in a minor act of warping reality around its foundations. Heaven drops him a memo regarding the act which is less a slap on the wrist and more a matter of polite confusion as to why a destroyed building needed to be temporarily rebuilt as a form of containment. Crowley laughed herself silly when Aziraphale informed her that his response had been something along the lines of "thwarting an agent of evil". 

[4] This also happens to make Crowley pout as the suggestion comes from Aziraphale and is based on personal experience by the Angel. Sometimes, as Aziraphale discovered, Crowley likes to be in her serpent form and not really interact beyond the typical snake-behaviour-things. Unless she’s cross. In which case, Aziraphale often reprimands her for slithering all over his books and purposefully knocking them off shelves; ending the reprimand with an order to go "have a nap to rid yourself of this foul mood you’re in, dear". 

[5] Incidentally, he endears himself to several grandmothers with these reviews, so much so, Crowley begins to feel a little threatened that they'll encroach on Her Angel. 

[6] Aziraphale's definition of "mortal peril" is perhaps a little different to what others definition of the term would be; owing to the fact that he's not one of those angels who believes that suffering makes a person wiser; those angels consider the harsher measures taken by God upon humanity to have been The Right Move and believe She ought to have gone further with her measures. Naturally, those angels are responsible for the more violent and destructive aspects of heaven's infrastructure. Especially the department dedicated to the destruction of all Unholy Things; demons, demonic things, demonic human supporters, you get the idea. 

[7] Additionally, Aziraphale's definition of "serious harm" can and does include tummy ache from too much food and not enough common sense regarding portion sizes. Not that this aspect of the definition is necessarily relevant to this situation. Somewhat amusing, however. 

[8] Sirius, incidentally, writes a follow-up letter to Harry clarifying his position on Harry’s actions in the Task; emphasising how proud he is that Harry is holding his own, not giving in, and also did something completely unheard of in Wizarding history. He _does_ , in a post-script, ask Harry to not show his uncle this letter because Sirius had insisted he’d not done anything wrong saying James would be proud of Harry for his flying with the Horntail behind him. Mostly, as Sirius explains, “because your dad would have died of fright at the thought of you doing it, while your mum would have only murdered you a little for doing it; both of them would be the first to say you flew amazing, however”. Harry, naturally, shows Aziraphale this post-script and, although the angel is annoyed at Black’s stubbornness, he does agree with him that James and Lily Potter would be beyond proud of Harry’s agility on a broom: “even if you do use it to give me a heart-attack,” Aziraphale adds, smiling at Harry who grins back.

[9] Whilst the betting offices are not all struck down with spontaneous, inexplicable mouth-frothing, they do suffer a number of _unfortunate_ incidents ranging from owls refusing to deliver mail, problems withdrawing money from Gringotts, and the premises being overrun by a myriad of mundane creatures; mostly rats. Crowley claims credit for that to hell; citing increasing the desire to bet by denying mortals the chance to do it due to minor inconveniences. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments and kudos sustain me.


	6. The Yule Ball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry visits Crowley and Aziraphale the day after the First Task, deciding to happily inform them of the party in Gryffindor Tower regarding his Not-Dying, before moving on to complain that the golden egg is loud, wails, and _utterly incomprehensible._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look. I'm back! In theory. Heh.

It transpires, rather anti-climatically actually, that there is to be a Yule Ball held during the Christmas holiday; on Christmas Day, no less. All students from fourth-year and above are allowed to attend—owing to Harry’s participation as a Champion; had he not been included in the Tournament, it would have been sixth- and seventh-years only. As a result, the number of students remaining over the Christmas holidays is vastly greater than what it has been in previous years, leading the staff to remain at the castle regardless of their own plans for the holidays.

Needless to say, some members of staff are rather displeased by this development; though they are wise enough to keep the displeasure to the staff lounge when Crowley or Aziraphale aren't present. Even then, they're rather hushed about it. 

Snape won't voice his complaints at all.

The Potions Master seems very intent on Not Saying A Thing in the school anymore. McGonagall had made a passing comment that, in the past, would have had Snape snipping at her but instead, the Slytherin head of house had visibly bit his lip and walked away. This has meant that McGonagall has rather gone out of her way to make comments about the state of Slytherin’s Quidditch team and their current ranking compared to Gryffindor; if only to enjoy the sight of Snape turning alarming shades of puce and then leaving briskly without saying a word.

Aziraphale had told Crowley that the Gryffindor head had actually told the angel that she was finding it rather delightful, riling Snape up so much. Apparently, he’s usually so dour and depressed that the constant state of frustrated silence is a significant departure from his usual personality. McGonagall is _living_ for causing the Potions Master a nervous breakdown.

She has assured Aziraphale and Crowley both that she does actually _like_ Snape, that she considers him a friend—of sorts—but Crowley figures that more of a “I’m friends with my colleague at work” as opposed to the “my colleague is also my friend” kind of situation.[1]

Harry visits Crowley and Aziraphale the day after the First Task, deciding to happily inform them of the party in Gryffindor Tower regarding his Not-Dying, before moving on to complain that the golden egg is loud, wails, and _utterly incomprehensible_.

"It's bloody _awful_ to listen to," is how Harry phrases his particular description of the golden egg with an unimpressed expression on his face. The teen is lying on the sofa, looking more like Crowley in a Dramatic Mood than he probably should. Both angel and demon find it terribly endearing; naturally. "Hermione even tried several translation spells on it only, hoping it would stop _screaming_ but none of them worked!" 

Now, were Crowley and Aziraphale anyone else, Harry’s discussion with them regarding the egg clue would probably end in no clear conclusion. Something about cheating and not showing bias towards one's school champion, _yada yada_. But, of course, they are who they are and have absolutely no problem helping Harry to Continue Not Dying. 

Life is more valuable than integrity, as Crowley puts it. Even Aziraphale can't quite disagree with _that_ sentiment. 

“Translation spells won’t work on it,” Crowley says and Harry looks at her with an that expression that absolutely says “ _you’re stating the bloody obvious, thanks_.”

Crowley considers it to be a brilliant expression that Harry has learnt from them both over the years. Aziraphale would disagree, but that's just because the angel is most-often the one with the expression. Crowley does tend to irritate her angel _just_ to see that expression; she imagines Aziraphale has to consciously control his facial muscles whenever Gabriel is being Extra Obtuse during the annual Heavenly Review.[2]

She gives Harry an amused look as she continues, “it’s magically-protected against tampering; translation spells count as tampering.”

“Well, that’s a bit rude,” Harry says and Crowley snorts.

The teen’s head flops back against the arm of the sofa. “How else am I supposed to understand the clue, then?” He asks, frowning. “Hermione suggested that it could be something to do with the pitch of the wailing but- it’s honestly _horrid_ to listen to; none of us can stand hearing it for more than thirty-seconds tops.”

“Nice idea, but that’s not it,” Crowley comments, though she thinks Hermione’s idea is definitely one the demon can work into some demonic scheme later in life; maybe coded messages in television static, or something?[3]

“Well then, I’m stuck.” Harry flops against the back of the couch. “There’s absolutely nothing else about the egg that makes sense.”

“If a translation spell won’t work, due to anti-tampering wards,” Aziraphale says, sipping a cup of tea he’d miracled warm again; the angel has an awful habit of forgetting about his beverages, Crowley has noticed over the years. “Then perhaps that is because it’s something you would be able to recognise immediately, thus revealing to you more than the judges intend you to know at this juncture.”

If Harry could look anymore _Unimpressed With Everything Right Now_ , Crowley would be surprised.

“Well, of course it would, angel,” Crowley says, rolling her eyes. “But there’s not exactly a lot for them to go on, is there? Golden egg stolen from a dragon. Wails something wicked when opened. Can’t be tampered with. Nothing else about it.”

“What I mean, Crowley—” Aziraphale huffs, giving her an annoyed look that she smirks at. “—is that there is obviously something about the egg that is a clue in-of-itself; beyond the incomprehensible noises it makes. Something that the Champions should know due to some form of education or experience.”

“But I’m a fourth-year,” Harry points out. “I don’t know half the stuff Cedric, Fleur, or Victor do. I don’t know half the stuff _Hermione_ does, and she’s the same age as me.”

“She’s not, actually,” Crowley corrects quietly and Harry gives her a glare that makes her smile. “Close enough, to not matter, I guess.”

“Which is why,” Aziraphale says, ignoring Crowley and smiling at the teenager, “I think it only fair to _tell_ you something that will at least offer you the same footing as the others.”

Harry leans forward on the couch, eyes wide. “You’re going to tell me what the egg is saying?” He asks, starting to grin. Of course that’s what Harry thinks Aziraphale means. Crowley has known this angel for six-thousand-years, almost; she knows better.

Aziraphale shakes his head, still smiling. “No.” There’s a mischievous look in those blue eyes.

Harry’s grin disappears and Aziraphale’s smile turns sly.

“I’m going to simply advise you to take a rather nice bath with the egg as company,” the angel says and Crowley really cannot help herself; she laughs.

“Angel, you make it sound so perverted!” Crowley grins unrepentantly when Aziraphale blushes and swats at her. She easily avoids his half-hearted attempt at chastisement. “Taking a bath with the egg as ‘company’, oh my Satan!” She pokes the angel in the side. “I never knew you were such a _voyeur_.”

“Oh hush,” Aziraphale snaps, his blush deepening.

They probably shouldn’t be talking like this in front of Harry but, Satan damn it, he’s fourteen. He’s going to have heard a lot worse from other kids in the dorms, than this. At least, that’s going to be Crowley’s _defence_ when Aziraphale tries to tell her off later for “corrupting the poor boy with talk of intimate things”.

Well, that and laughter. Lots of laughter.

“Wait,” Harry interrupts, and Crowley sighs internally because she can’t keep teasing the angel—not right now, anyway. “Does that mean I need to- what- listen to it underwater or something?”

“Not ‘or something’,” Aziraphale says, focusing on Harry again. “You’ll find it of significant benefit to be underwater when listening to the egg.”

“Okay.” Harry frowns. “But why underwater?”

“Because water distorts sound-waves,” Crowley explains, taking pity on Harry because Aziraphale is definitely being a bit of a bastard now. Dragging this out. Just rude that is, honestly.[4] “The human body is made of a lot of water, and sound travels five times faster in water than it does in air. The lower frequencies aren’t audible to you underwater because the inner ear bones don’t vibrate in water from the sound-waves; but you can hear higher frequencies much easier instead.”[5]

“One; you sound like Hermione, and two; so the egg is just a frequency I can’t hear?” Harry asks. “How do you know this, Aunt Crowley?”

Crowley shrugs. “I helped make stars; have to understand waves and particles for that stuff,” she answers casually. “And yes and no. It’s got lots of frequencies you can hear and some you can’t unless you’re underwater. Air resistance affects the sound, and how much your inner ear bones vibrate when you’re not underwater. So, by being underwater with the egg and listening to the sound it makes, you’ll be able to hear what the higher frequencies are without the lower ones making your ears bleed.”

“Huh.” Harry bites his lip, obviously thinking. “So Hermione’s sort of right, then,” he says eventually. “The sounds are a code, just not the way she thinks it is?”

Aziraphale hums. “Yes, to some degree,” the angel agrees and Crowley nods. “And I suppose, altering the density of the air around the egg to match that of water could create the same effect; in theory.”

Crowley shakes her head. “Best to just do it underwater, angel,” she says. “Just in case there’s other magic involved that we don’t know about.”

 _Better to be safe than sorry,_ and all that.

Aziraphale nods. “Oh yes, quite right.”

“I guess I’m getting a bath tonight, then,” Harry says. 

“Don’t forget to wash behind your ears,” Crowley says, grinning and Harry groans. “Don’t want them dropping off before you’ve listened to your wailing egg, after all.”

“Aunt Crowley!”

The sound of Crowley’s cackling can probably be heard in Gryffindor tower. Actually, considering the fact that she’s a demon, _it is._ Harry has to assure his entire house that he’s fine and no, no one is dead, when he gets back after the bath with the egg.

Hermione and Ron both drag him to the fourth-year boys dorm to Explain Everything Now, Thank You. Then he has to contend with Hermione looking very much like she wants to go interrogate Crowley for an hour or three about the properties of sound in water. Ron, at least, just asks Harry to play another round of Wizard’s Chess.

* * *

With the clue for the second task being so readily available for Harry to discover, he figures it’s only fair for the other Champions to know too. That, of course, means that Aziraphale gets to host the young adults while Harry tells them about the golden egg.

“So we use water to hear the clue from the egg,” Fleur says. “That makes sense, I suppose.” The boys all look at her. “The sound from the egg reminds me of the mermaids my grandmother knows,” she explains and in unison both Cedric and Viktor both let out surprised sounds. Harry just frowns.

“Your grandmother knows _mermaids_?” Cedric asks, eyes wide.

Aziraphale finds the reactions from Cedric and Viktor to be a tad dramatic, really. Mermaids are lovely people; they have such a fondness for oysters that Aziraphale considers them kindred souls regarding seafood.

“Oh, that’s wonderful, Fleur!” Aziraphale exclaims, because it is, and also because it makes Cedric and Viktor switch their surprised gaze to him. “I would imagine they’re from one of the Channel Pods, perhaps? Or—oh forgive me—there’s the Mediterranean Pods also that would be accessible from France, yes?”

Fleur gives Aziraphale a blindingly bright smile, one that Aziraphale finds utterly beautiful with the way it makes her soul _shine_. “They are Mediterranean, Master Fell,” she says and she sounds so _happy_ just to be speaking to someone else who knows about the varying pods. “My grandmother befriended one of the daughters of the Pod Matriarch when she was just a young girl. They are lovely and keep the creatures in the waters by my grandmother's chalet safe from muggles.”

“Oh, that’s splendid, it truly is!” Aziraphale’s smile may be as bright as Fleur’s, or his eyes at least, because Viktor and Cedric are starting to look a little dazed while Harry seems to be squinting behind his glasses. “But, of course, that is not what we’re discussing here, are we? No, no, but another time dear Fleur. I would truly love to hear of the Pod your grandmother has found friends in. All Mermaid Pods tend toward caution with land-dwellers.”

“They do, yes,” Fleur nods. “But, back to the clue. The sound it makes is like the Mermaids I grew up hearing when I visited my grandmother. So I imagine the clue has something to do with the local Pod here?”

“There’s a group of- uh- a Pod of Mermaids in Scotland?” Harry asks, frowning. “How would that work?”

“Well, the Loch Ness Monster is a Kelpie,” Cedric says, seeming to have shaken off the daze from the combined brightness of Aziraphale and Fleur’s smiles. “It lives in the Loch because its actually expanded space; some sort of natural magical thing. I don’t know much about it, really.”

“That’s more than I do,” Harry says and Cedric ducks his head, smiling. Aziraphale thinks the expression on the Hufflepuff is almost bashful. It seems young Mister Diggory is rather shy when it comes to be praised. It rather reminds Aziraphale of Crowley for a moment. “But, if there’s Mermaids in Scotland, where would they be?”

Viktor makes a sound. They all turn to look at the Bulgarian.

“What about the Black Lake?”

Cedric and Harry look at each other. Aziraphale sees their expressions both go from confusion to horror at the same time.

“I’m not swimming in the Black Lake! It’s freezing!”

“That’s insane! The water is below freezing all year-round!”

Both speak over the other but they’re saying the same thing and Aziraphale sort of wants to laugh at their absolute horror.

“Harry,” Aziraphale says, “I know for a fact you’ve swam in cold water before; we took you to Southport and you positively refused to get out of the water at one point.” Harry blushes. “And really, Cedric, the Black Lake is not below freezing. It’s _near_ freezing, there is a difference; trust me on that.”

Perhaps the expression on his face discourages either Hogwarts Champion from arguing with him, but Aziraphale cannot help the shadowy thoughts that he recalls in that moment. Below freezing water is _vastly different_ to water that is above freezing. It is the difference between life and death in minutes, he has seen that _personally_.[6]

“Does this mean we will have to do something in the Lake, then?” Viktor asks, breaking the tension that has built in the silence after Aziraphale’s sharp words. “I haven’t seen the bottom of it; it is very deep.”

“Expanded space,” Fleur reminds them. “There may be an entire ocean that exists within the Lake.”

If that is the case, of course, then that will mean the Champions will have quite the task on their hands. The accidental pun _not_ intended. Aziraphale prefers to save his puns for Crowley; the eye roll and snort of amusement she lets out every time is so very endearing, Aziraphale is often tempted to make more puns than those he does most days. If only to see her smile a little at it. The soft amused smile she gives him when she thinks he’s not looking truly suits the demon. Truly.

“Well, that may be a bit of a problem,” Aziraphale says, “but not an insurmountable one, for any of you. You’re all accomplished magicians, after all, and not one of you is unable to perform the location charm, or the compass charm.”

“They’re fifth-year spells,” Cedric says, frowning. He looks at Harry, who looks unconcerned.

“I learnt the location charm in third-year,” Harry says. “Hermione didn’t think I would be able to do it, and then I picked up the compass charm because it was on the same page.” He pauses. “And I knew it’d annoy Hermione.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “Is that the reason you ended up hiding out here for two days?”

Harry grins at him. “Yep.”

“You and Crowley are ever so alike, Harry,” Aziraphale says, smiling. “Absolutely incorrigible.”

“Oi, I resent that, angel,” Crowley says as she walks into their chambers. Aziraphale’s smile grows. “I’m not incorrigible. I’m inveterate, irreformable, irredeemable, even, but not incorrigible. That’s an awful word. I hate it.”

“Those mean the same thing, dear,” Aziraphale points out and Crowley huffs.

“Not to me they don’t,” she mutters, dropping down with all the grace a divine now infernal being can possess to sit next to Aziraphale. “Anyway, what’s with the circle of Champions?” She tilts her head. “Gaggle of Champions? I like gaggle, sounds more chaotic.”

Aziraphale can see the effect Crowley’s nattering is having on the Champions and he finds it ever so endearing. She’s distracting them from their obvious nerves at their needing to enter the Black Lake for the second task. Aziraphale looks at them all, his gaze lingering on Harry the longest. Not one of them knows what the clue itself means yet, the cost of it, but they will.

Aziraphale sorely hopes Dumbledore is punched in the face for his efforts to design these tasks, he truly does.

* * *

The revelation of the Yule Ball is, for the most part, what the students focus on in the lull between tasks. The Champions all deal with the offers of company to the Ball; something that they collectively complain about when they meet up the weekend following McGonagall’s notifying the school.

Harry finds it the most disturbing experience, considering he’s fourteen, and hasn’t even _dated_ anyone let alone _kissed someone_.

For some reason known only to Fleur, she takes it upon herself to be absolutely _terrifying_ towards the older students who try and ask Harry to be their date to the Ball. Although, considering the look Cedric and Viktor exchanged when Harry mentioned a sixth-year Ravenclaw asking him, perhaps she’s not the only one who knows the reason for her motivation.

Harry would like to know, since it obviously concerns him.

Hermione is the one who finally explains it to him when he mentions it to her during a study session in the library. Ron has detention with Flitwick—he hexed Zabini in Charms because the Slytherin mouthed off about his sister—which means Harry doesn’t have his friend as a buffer for Hermione at her most annoyed.

“Harry,” she says, and she sounds calm but Harry can see the anger in her eyes. “That sixth-year who asked you out—the Ravenclaw one, at least—that was wrong of them to do so.”

Harry frowns. “Why?”

“Because you’re fourteen and they’re almost seventeen. That’s not okay.” Hermione sighs. “Well, it’s not okay because you’re fourteen and your a Champion and famous and haven’t dated _anyone_ before and it’s kind of obvious you’re not interested _in_ dating anyone.” She looks at him. “That sixth-year doesn’t know you, they’re not your friend, and I’ve heard rumours about them from the other Gryffindor girls.”

“Rumours.” Harry looks at Hermione. “What rumours? Are they a Death Eater? Do they support Voldemort? Do you mean—”

“No.” Hermione shakes her head. “Not those kind of rumours.”

“Oh,” Harry says, “then what’s the problem with them asking me to the Ball?”

How exactly is it a problem? Harry doesn’t understand. If they’re not a Death Eater or support Voldemort or whatever, then it’s not a problem. What are they going to do to him? He’s already almost died before; he doesn’t think a sixth-year Ravenclaw is anything to be concerned about.

Which, truthfully, shows how little he knows about the world in retrospect.

“Would you be okay if a six-year asked me to the Ball?” Hermione asks him and Harry frowns deeply. “Someone neither of us knew anything about?”

“Well, no,” Harry says. “What if they’re a Death Eater? Or they’re pushy? Or if they—”

“Ask me out specifically because I’m friends with someone famous and they want that fame by association?” Hermione cuts in, raising an eyebrow. “Or how about; what if they’re someone who has gone out with others in the school who are younger than them and all the prefects seem to always be around them whenever there’s something to do with the younger years?”

Harry stares at Hermione.

“Wait,” he says, slowly. “Are you- are you implying- that people are asking me out because they want to- what- make out with me or something?”

Hermione sighs. “Or something,” she mutters.

“Okay, Harry, I love you like a brother, I do, but you’re an absolute idiot about this stuff,” Hermione says, picking up a book that Harry hadn’t noticed under the rolls of parchment on their table. “Maybe this will help explain it better to you, I don’t know, but just because someone seems nice and like they’re not asking for something from you, doesn’t make it _true_.”

“Uh…”

“Sometimes, Harry, you meet someone and they seem like the nicest person in the world but the moment they ask you for something you’re not comfortable with and they make it seem like _you’re_ being the unreasonable one… Harry,” Hermione says, looking at him with such knowledge in her eyes. “That’s not someone who is a good person. People don’t have to be Death Eaters to be cruel.”

“Hermione,” Harry says, slowly, “are you- did- is this-” he doesn’t know what to say.

She looks at him. “No. I just- my mother and I had a talk over the summer, since my birthday is during term, and it- sometimes I miss not being treated like I’m something for the boys at school to target.”

Harry sits forward in his seat, anger suddenly coursing through him. “What!”

“Harry, I’m a girl.”

He frowns. “I know you’re a girl, Hermione,” he says impatiently. “That’s not new.”

She laughs softly. “Of course it isn’t,” she says and she’s smiling a little. “But some of the boys in school _have_ just noticed and honestly, it’s exhausting sometimes to just have to tell them no all the time.”

“Are they not respecting boundaries, Hermione?” Harry asks. He’s sure he sounds calm but the look Hermione gives him probably means he doesn’t sound as calm as he’s trying to pretend he is. “What are their names?”

Hermione laughs. “Oh this is hilarious,” she says, shaking her head. “You get it when it’s _me_ being targeted, but not when it’s _you._ ”

“What?”

“Harry, that sixth-year wants to go to the Ball with you to ‘get in your trousers’ so to speak,” Hermione explains. “Like the boys bothering me want to get a hand up my skirt because they’re all perverts.”

Harry stares at Hermione. “That- what- _they want to do what to you_?”

“The same thing that sixth-year wants to try on you,” Hermione says calmly. “Which they’re not going to get the chance to do, judging by the way Fleur and Cedric both went straight for them yesterday. I think the only reason they weren’t hexed out of the courtyard is because Snape showed up to watch the first-years pick those leaves from the trees there.”

“Is that why Viktor was being all protective and extra glary?” Harry asks, noticing the way Hermione sort of blushes at the mention of the Bulgarian. “And what’s with the blush?”

“Nothing!” Hermione all-but squeaks and Harry smirks. “And yes, he was. None of us are happy with those students who keep propositioning you, Harry. Especially when you clearly have no clue that they are, oh don’t look at me like that, you’re as oblivious as your Uncle about this!”

“I feel like I should be offended by that,” Harry says.

“Probably.” 

"How are you supposed to collect doxies, again?" Harry asks, changing the subject back to their actual education. Hermione gives him a look that's part pleased at his desire to study and part amused at his grasping for a subject change. She knows he doesn't want to keep on about this topic now; not when it's going to bother him and he'd like to have his minor panic about dating and the Ball and potentially being accosted by someone's tongue down his throat and-

"You don't. They collect you, apparently." 

Harry's sure she's making a joke about the number of people trying to be his partner. He's sure of it. He's also enough of a coward not to actually call her out on that; she's as terrifying as a Basilisk when she makes puns. It usually means she's making _plans_. 

Harry needs to find a date to the Ball _before_ Hermione pulls something. He's going to need to talk to his Aunt and Uncle. Someone help him. 

* * *

The discussion with his Aunt and Uncle is pretty straight forward, surprisingly enough. Both of them agree that Harry should probably have _some_ interest in his partner for the Ball. They also, in the way they do that makes Harry laugh, argue that he needs to have some _life_ to said interest since just having carnal interest is _boring_. 

Aunt Crowley actually said the words "if you can't mock them and they can't mock you back, what's the point?" which led to some very intense staring between her and Uncle Aziraphale that Harry took as a hint to Leave Now Or Be Traumatised By Guardian-Related Mush. 

Of course, what this ends up resulting in is something Harry figures will have the entire school collectively dropping dead; his guardians included. _If_ his potential partner is willing. 

Oddly enough, he has a feeling they will be. 

Unfortunately, his plan is going to need some _additional assistance,_ and he can't ask Ron or Hermione since them _also_ not knowing is part of the plan, as well. But he needs people who are reliable, prone to a little bit of chaos and mischief, and who will keep a secret until death if it's for a good joke. 

In short, he needs the Weasley Twins. 

"Oi, Forge and Gred!" Harry hollers across the courtyard under the clock, voice carrying easily to where the twins are perched on the wall near the bridge. The twins look at him with simultaneous expressions that scream mischief for the people around them who Know what those mischievous expressions mean. Several students are already inching away from the twins so, naturally, the way Harry calls for their attention is correctly interpreted as Trouble, so it's no surprise that a good number of students nearby look very _worried right now._

If he were in their position, Harry would be very worried too. 

But since he’s not, Harry doesn’t concern himself with the increasingly paranoid and suspicious glances he’s being given as he crosses the courtyard to the twins. He has a mighty need for fellow mischief-makers and the rest of Hogwarts is just going to have to _cope_.

“Harry-kins!” Fred or George exclaims and Harry grins at them. “What are you doing calling for us humble mischief-makers? Do you have a need for some Canary Creams? We have some Ton-Tongue Toffees too, if you’re after something to help you in a _certain department_? Make you a fan with all your suitors, eh?”

Harry doesn’t roll his eyes- yes, he does. Everyone keeps making _jokes_ about _things_ and Harry could really do without them. He’s fourteen for Heaven’s sake, can’t they just lay off until he’s fifteen? It’s only seven months away!

“Maybe another time, Gred,” Harry replies, grin widening when he realises he guessed the twin correctly. Fred always does look a little surprised when Harry gets their names right. Probably because Mrs Weasley seems to get them confused so often. Ron is pretty good at knowing which twin is which, too; and Ginny.

Ginny is terrifying though, so that makes sense.

“If you’re not interested in our wares, then what else can we be doing for you, Oh Great Champion, Sir?” George asks, and this time Harry laughs at the clear attempt by George to make him laugh. The overly-dramatic arm-flailing when calling Harry ‘Oh Great Champion, Sir’ is what does it.

“I have a… a need for some mischief to be _managed_ ,” Harry replies, lowering his voice after he stops laughing. Fred and George instantly lean in close to him, the universal movement for _tell me more, I’m curious now_. “But only you two and one other are going to be In The Know, okay?”

“Fine by us but—”

“—who’s the other?”

Fred and George speak at the same time, but their sentences run on from the other in the way that their sentences always have. Harry thinks it’s pretty awesome to be able to do that sort of thing; talk with another person and still make perfect sense even though you’re both saying half a sentence or whatever.

“I can’t tell you that, yet,” Harry answers truthfully. “I haven’t talked to them about this.”

“So you don’t even know if they’ll agree?” George gives Harry a bit of a disappointed look. “Harry-kins, you can’t plan mischief effectively if you don’t know if the other party will work with you.”

Harry’s grin turns a little sly, just like his Uncle’s—not that he realises that, though Fred and George both look at him in surprise. “Oh, I think, he will,” he assures. “Especially, when I explain just how much it’s going to drive some people up the wall.”

“Him.” Fred blinks. “You said ‘him’,” he repeats, slowly, and then he _grins_. “Harry, are you going to ask out a _boy_?”

Harry doesn’t blush. He _doesn’t._[7]

“And if I am?”

George shoves at Fred. “Stop it, Fred,” he says, giving his twin a glare, before looking at Harry and continuing. “If you are, Harry,” he says, seriously, “then we’re not going to complain but I really hope you got the Safe Sex Talk from your Aunt and Uncle.”

Harry grimaces. “George!”

Now, George smirks. “What? We got it from our mum, consider yourself lucky.”

“We nearly had her in tears,” Fred says, smiling fondly at the memory. “Dad grounded us for a week.”

“Yeah, but joke’s on dad, we spent that week perfecting one of our potions for use in Snape’s classroom.” George looks at Fred. “How many points did we lose for that, again?”

“Eh, one-hundred-and-fifty, I think,” Fred replies, casually. “Wasn’t our best, but was a good effort.”

“Only you two would consider _losing_ points to be a good thing,” Harry says, laughing and the twins grin at him.

“But of course, Harry,” Fred says. “Losing points means we’re doing precisely what we’re supposed to be doing at school—”

“Causing chaos?” Harry smirks.

“That,” George agrees, “but also _learning_. After all, what’s the point in learning about potions that already exist when you can learn how to make a _whole new one yourself_?”

Harry tilts his head. “Okay,” he says, “fair point.”

“Anyway, back to your _mischief_ , Harry.” Fred gives him a look that screams Planning Mode Activated. Hermione has a look just like it when she’s planning their study schedules for exams. “What do you need us to do?”

“What you do best, actually,” Harry replies, leaning against the wall beside the twins. “My plan is to cause absolute chaos at the Ball, because it’s such a load of bull. The whole Tournament is, really, but the Ball is all about being gracious and stuff about being made to compete in a Death Tournament.”

“The other Champions did volunteer,” George points out but Harry scowls at him.

“Yeah, because none of them knew just _how dangerous it’d be_.” Harry shakes his head. “Fleur told me that she didn’t think the First Task would be dragons. Neither did Viktor or Cedric. In fact, they all thought it’d be like a duel or something. Dragons never even _crossed_ their minds, when they volunteered for this thing!”

Fred and George both look at each other, communicating wordlessly.

“So,” George says after a long moment. “What you want us to do, in effect—”

“—is cause chaos at the Ball—”

“—as a way of saying ‘fuck you’ to the Judges—”

“—and their piss poor abilities at making a Tournament—”

“—with Tasks that aren’t deadly—”

“—is that about it?” Fred finishes and Harry nods.

George grins. “Great!”

Harry would pity the judges for what they’re going to experience during the Ball but, considering the absolute _mess_ of a Tournament the Champions have been roped into, he just _doesn’t_.

Let the Weasley Twins _break them_.

* * *

Since the students from fourth-year and above remain for the Christmas Holidays, Harry spends Christmas Eve in the Gryffindor dorms and wakes to the sound of Seamus and Dean arguing over their presents. Ron is a hairsbreadth away from dive bombing on Harry when the Indian boy shoots up out of bed and avoids the gangly redhead intending to crush him in his own bed.

“Next time, Ron,” Harry says, laughing as Ron untangles Harry’s bedsheets from around himself. “Next time.”

“You shouldn’t sleep in until you’re last up, Harry!” Ron exclaims, grinning when he finally escapes Harry’s bedding. “I had to fend off Seamus and Dean from trying to Tickle Charm you awake.”

Harry snorts. “That would have been better than near death via Weasley,” he jokes and Ron shoves him as they move to the piles of presents at the bottom of their beds. Harry’s pile is larger than it has been in previous years and he grimaces, already knowing a load of those presents will be from his _suitors_.

He still hasn’t told anyone who his date is for tonight.

Ron has already threatened to sic Ginny on him to find out. Harry had to let Ginny in on The Plan just to avoid that and it’s honestly more terrifying for the youngest Weasley to know because she just looks so _gleeful_ whenever she sees him.

The unwrapping of gifts takes up a good hour-and-a-half of the morning, allowing the Gryffindor boys to burn out some Christmas Day energy, making them a bit more tolerable for Hermione when she joins them. Neville and Dean are arguing over who has the best Quidditch-related gift—Harry firmly thinks Neville does but he’s not going to say that out loud—when she opens the door to their form and literally throws herself on Ron’s bed.

“Your Uncle is the _best_ , Harry!” She exclaims, grinning so widely that it’s a little on the scary side of smiling, holding up a book for the boys to see.

“A History of Feminist Theory, Intersectionality, and Magic,” Seamus reads, frowning as he does so. “That sounds fancy.”

“It’s a recent publication,” Hermione explains happily. “I’d mentioned it to your Uncle before Christmas because I’d been hoping the School Library would have a copy for my Muggle Studies essay; you know, the one about how magical ability is viewed differently based on where you’re born, your blood status, and so on? Well, I couldn’t find a copy and I was complaining to your Uncle about it. He was as upset as I was about it not being in the library, and promised to get a copy for the Spring Term. I wasn’t expecting him to actually give _me a copy too!_ ”

Harry laughs at the way Hermione has just blurted out an entire paragraph in under thirty seconds, speaking so fast that Neville, Seamus, and Dean are all blinking in a daze. They’re not as used to Hermione when she’s In A Talkative Mood as he and Ron are.

Ron just snorts. “Course he did,” he says like it’s the most reasonable thing for Harry’s Uncle to have done. “You’re as obsessed with books as he is; even Harry isn’t that obsessed.”

“You haven’t seen my summer reading list,” Harry points out and Ron just rolls his eyes. “What did you get from my Aunt, then?” He asks Hermione who, for some reason, blushes.

“Uhm... She gave me a gift card,” Hermione replies.

“For what? Another bookshop?”

“No, but it’s very thoughtful of her.”

Harry has a strong feeling that he doesn’t want to know. Unfortunately, he’s also incredibly curious and, judging by the way he is looking at Hermione as well, so is Ron.

They look at each other and have one of those silent conversations that friends can have, deciding to speak to Hermione About This Later. It’s sure to be an interesting conversation at least.

Everyone’s focus shifts from Hermione to sorting their gifts and putting the wrapping paper in a messy but organised pile for the Elves to deal with. Harry’s gifts are, mostly, shared between the boys and Hermione, since he’s not in the habit of keeping gifts sent to him by people who want to shag him.

“So, you gonna tell us who you’re taking now, Harry?” Dean asks and Harry grins at the other boy.

“Nope.”

“You’re not going stag are you?” Neville frowns at Harry. “You can probably get away with it but McGonagall might murder you anyway.”

Harry snorts. “Tempting, but also no.”

Ron grumbles something under his breath and Harry has to fight back a laugh. His friend is still annoyed that Harry won’t tell him who his date is for the night.

“I have good money on your, Harry,” Seamus jokes, slapping Harry on the shoulder. “Seriously hoping I’ll win this time.”

Harry looks at him. “The twins?”

Fred and George had set up a betting pool about who Harry was taking to the Ball. The most popular bets, for twisted reasons, have been Snape and Voldemort. Least popular, thankfully, was Dumbledore and Binns.

If Harry were anyone but himself, he’d probably be a bit offended that only staff members have been considered his most and least likely dates. It’s more funny than anything else, however, so he’s taken to causing extra chaos with casual comments about his date mostly focusing on their outfits.

Katie Bell actually cornered him after Charms one day and threatened him with a tickle attack if Harry didn’t confess to her. Harry is immune to tickling, however, so her attack didn’t land all that well when he refused.[8]

Seamus nods. “Twenty to one, odds.”

“Not bad.”

“Betting is illegal, you know?” Hermione comments casually and Harry eyes her.

“Your odds?” He asks her and she grins at him.

“Sixty-five.”

Harry blinks. “Impressive.”

“I hate you all, Fred and George wouldn’t let me bet,” Ron says as they enter the Great Hall for lunch. The entire hall is decked out in excessive amounts of Christmas decorations, complete with a dozen Christmas trees that sparkle in the candle light.

The conversation regarding betting over Harry’s days falls to the wayside when the fourth-year Gryffindor boys—and Hermione—lay their eyes upon the spread for Christmas Dinner.[9] With a spread that covers an amazing range of cultural dishes, the tables look closer to collapsing under the sheer quantity of food upon them.

“I think my Uncle might have encouraged the Elves to ‘go all out’ this year,” Harry says as they sit down.

“When?” Hermione asks, curious even though she doesn’t like the situation the House Elves are in; she firmly believes they’re being exploited by wizards and witches, and she is entirely correct. “I thought you said the headmaster banned him from the kitchens.”

Harry shrugs, helping himself to some chicken beat and stuffing. “Aunt Crowley laughed about that,” he says, “told me the Castle actually found Dumbledore’s threat hilarious enough to _maybe_ indulge him.”

“The Castle? It’s not alive though, how can it find Dumbledore funny?” Ron’s mouth is full and his words a bit garbled but Harry understands him fine, regardless. He’s had years of practice of deciphering Ron’s food-in-his-mouth speech.

Harry shrugs again. He’s eyeing up the dish of roast potatoes to Ron’s left; something the ginger realises and proceeds to pass the dish to Harry. “Thanks. Honestly, I don’t know but it makes sense, I guess.”

“Uncle Zira explained that mortal magic can _bleed_ into stuff over time, making it magical. The Castle is old, right, like twelfth century or something, so that’s a long time to be used as a magical school. Makes sense of have some awareness after all that time.”

Ron and Hermione are both silent, each processing what Harry’s just blindsided them with. He spoons some carrot-and-turnip onto his plate while he waits.

“That’s kinda disturbing but also kinda awesome,” Ron says eventually and Harry nods. It is.

“Has there been any research done on this?” Hermione demands and Harry shrugs, _again_. “There should be because that makes a lot of sense and there _are_ studies about the ambient effects of magic but I’ve not come across _any_ that focus on architectural designs and magical bleeding over time.”

“Guess you have something to pass the time over Christmas holiday, besides homework,” Harry says and Hermione looks torn between swatting at him and hugging him for giving her the idea.

Harry might regret mentioning the Castle’s sentience eventually but, for now, Hermione finds it fascinating and won’t pester him for his book on _Elemental Magic_. He has plans to read that before term starts in January.[10]

Dumbledore does the usual speech for Christmas Dinner, tacking on a bit about community spirit and friendships that “span any distance”. It’s tacky and predictable but it’s also a good little reminder for the students at the school. Everyone at least finds it a tolerable speech when they’re allowed dessert right after.

As soon as lunch-slash-Christmas-Dinner is over, Harry and his friends hurry back to Gryffindor Tower. Although the boys aren’t overly concerned with how they’re going to look for the Ball, they’re concerned enough about how their dates will treat them if they spend five minutes getting ready as opposed to fifty.

Harry isn’t one to care overly much about his appearance, he didn’t have the opportunity once upon a time, but his Aunt and Uncle have instilled in him a basic appreciation for not looking like he’s just been dragged through a hedge of nettles. It’s understandable, Harry thinks, that he’s very careful with how he presents himself at the Ball tonight considering he’s being a bit of a rebel—a lot of a rebel—and his date will expect him to be more than “just decent”.[11]

Ron’s expression when he sees Harry’s dress robes for the first time is one of honest surprise. There’s no jealously since Harry’s Aunt had taken one look at Ron’s dress robes and declared them a travesty and replaced them before the ginger could say a word about it.

“Not bad, Harry,” Seamus says, giving Harry a wolf whistle when the Irish boy comes back from the bathroom where he’d tried to sort his hair. “Might just look prettier than all the girls, tonight.”

“I try,” Harry quips, smirking at Seamus who snorts.

“Please,” Ron says, and Harry focuses on his friend. Ron’s outfit suits the ginger fantastically, the deep red, almost black, blend really making his red hair stand out; in a good, complimentary way. “Just tell me who you’re going with. I will literally do _anything_ , Harry!”

“Will you kiss Snape?” Harry asks just to see Ron reel back in horror.

“You’re a twisted person, Harry,” Ron says and Harry snorts. “Your Aunt is probably happy about that.”

“She is,” Harry confirms. “I’m not going to tell you who my date is, Ron. You’re just going to have to wait and see like everyone else.”

“Cruel and twisted.” Ron amends, grinning as they leave Gryffindor Tower together with the other fourth-year boys.

“Just like my Aunt and Uncle raised me,” quips Harry and they laugh, dropping the conversation as they head down to the Great Hall where the Ball is being held.

* * *

Aziraphale finds the sight of over a hundred teenagers, aged between fourteen and eighteen, making merry on Christmas Day to be a delightful one. The music leaves much to be desired but this modern-day bebop stuff that Crowley likes is ‘all the rage’ with the children, so Aziraphale endures it for their sake.

He also endures it because it means Crowley may ask him to dance with her and he does so _dearly_ want to dance with her. Although, if one of the other staff members offer, Aziraphale will politely accept because he has good manners and will never refuse an offer for friendly company on the dance floor.

That’s his _excuse_ , anyway.

However, the sight that greets him when Crowley enters the Great Hall leaves the angel rather in need of a strong drink.

He knew that Crowley would do her upmost to skirt the edge of convention, pushing the socially-accepted fashion to its extremes, but this- Aziraphale wasn’t expecting _this_.

He’s not certain how to describe the outfit Crowley struts across the Great Hall in, heading directly for Aziraphale with that laser focus the demon gets sometimes, but the reaction to it by the staff and students is certainly description enough.

Aziraphale thinks the entire male population of Hogwarts may be drooling a little. And a good quantity of the female population too.

Aziraphale sympathises with them, considering how he hasn’t blinked since the moment Crowley entered the Hall. Or breathed.

Her dress is... not quite what Aziraphale expected and yet precisely what he expected because _this is Crowley, after all._ She must always be provocative. For Crowley, the line between propriety and shamelessness is a smokescreen that she can pass through where others would meet a brick wall.

She is within the smoke now and it takes Aziraphale’s breath away.

She flows past Snape who, Aziraphale absently notes, looks like he’s discovered his blush for the first time in over a decade and doesn’t know what to do about it, to saunter right up to where Aziraphale stands.

He may be mistaken but the eyes of the whole school may well be locked upon them both when Crowley stops just in front of Aziraphale. Her dress fans out behind her like an elegantly curling tail.

 _Naughty girl_.

Aziraphale notices that Crowley has freckles on her shoulders. They look like dark stars in an alabaster sky.

“Angel,” Crowley all but purrs, smirking at him in that way she has that sets Aziraphale’s mind all abuzz.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says as reasonably as he can. His throat appears to be dry and it makes his voice sound a little… raspy, as though he were shocked. He is shocked. And something else, perhaps. He swallows. “You are dressed to perfection, as always.”

Crowley’s smirk grows as she leans closer toward him. Aziraphale catches a scent like roses that makes him feeling most dizzy as he decides that he rather likes Crowley smelling like rose. It complements the fiery smoke smell that she has always; like standing beside a rose bush near a bonfire on a crisp November night. _Wonderful_.

“Why thank you, Angel,” she says, with that smirk of hers drawing Aziraphale’s focus. “I always try to look my best. Can’t do my job right if I don’t look the part, now.”

Aziraphale cannot help but smile at that as he raises an arm out toward Crowley. “Indeed,” he agrees, smile soft and warm. “May I be so forward in requesting you be my companion on the floor, this evening?”

Crowley’s smirk shifts into something warmer and, dare Aziraphale say it, _kinder_. She raises a hand with all the grace of a queen and rests it on his forearm. “You may, Angel,” she says. “I can’t tempt you if I don’t acting tempting now, can I?”

Together they move to the dance floor, walking in tandem with the weight of millennia in their shadows, and the crowd parts for them. As they prepare to dance, Aziraphale placing his hands where they ought to be upon Crowley and she placing hers a little more _suggestively_ , Aziraphale smiles at her and cannot help but have a most traitorous thought: _you are always tempting and I am always tempted, dear, even when you do not try to be_.

It is fortunate for them both, that heaven and hell have no interest in their work at present and won’t for many more years.

The crowd of students and staff in the Great Hall are witness to the movements of two beings so very beyond them and do not understand the magnitude of what they see as Aziraphale and Crowley dance in perfect synchronicity. But, for all that they don’t understand it, something deep within them all Knows; this is the prelude to something that will change Everything Forever.

Indeed, it is ever so fortunate that heaven and hell are distracted by internal communication errors for the night of the Yule Ball. What a strange coincidence. Right?

* * *

The Yule Ball goes off without a hitch, thankfully, and Harry gets to witness his defacto parents be disgustingly sweet together in a way he should probably be Absolutely Mortified by but is instead only _slightly_ mortified by. With the conclusion of the Ball and the subsequent end to the winter holidays, where Harry experiences so many fun and enjoyable things like; Cedric and Viktor taking it upon themselves to drag Harry off and terrorise him with spells and hexes that a fourth-year shouldn’t know; Fleur deciding that Enough Was Enough and that Harry needed to finally understand the _danger_ of being a popular boy with no understanding Relationships; and strange, strange thoughts regarding his own experience of the Yule Ball. It’s no surprise that he’s pleased when classes resume and people can at least be somewhat distracted by homework and studying.

Of course, that doesn’t stop Ron from being an absolute berk with him over the Ball and Harry’s choice of partner.

“I can’t believe it though!” Ron exclaims from his bed where he’s studying—or meant to be—for Transfiguration. “Of all people!”

“I wanted to make an entrance.” Harry doesn’t look at his best friend, too intent on figuring out if the wording in his textbook actually makes sense or had someone using a thesaurus to try and _look_ like they could make sense.

“Well you bloody well did that,” Ron mutters. “But really, you couldn’t have gone with _anyone_ else?”

Harry looks up from the textbook, deciding to just give up with that paragraph and wing it in his essay; he’s got a better chance of Not Failing with bullshitting than he does with trying to work with that nightmare of a textbook. “Ron,” he says, sighing a little. “It wouldn’t have been an entrance with anyone else.”

Ron knows this. Ron _agrees_ with Harry about this. Harry knows that. Ron still complains about it and flops on his bed. “I know,” he says. “But I still can’t believe it. It’s too traumatising to believe it.”

Harry snorts. “Nah,” he says, grinning. “Traumatising would have been me going with _Snape_.”

Ron lets out a groan. “I’m going to have nightmares,” he mutters and Harry laughs. “You’re _horrible_.”

“Thank you, I try,” Harry quips and Ron gives him the middle finger without looking. “You should probably finish that essay for Snape by the way; the deadline is our first class.”

Ron sits up suddenly. “Shit.”

“Nice knowing you,” Harry tells him, laughing again when Ron flips him off.

“Ho-r-ri-ble.” Ron enunciates at him while Harry continues to laugh at him.

Harry and Hermione both help Ron with his Potions essay in the end, Hermione more than Harry, and the end result is an essay that will get Ron a good enough grade to shut him up. Harry still brings up the Traumatising Nightmare whenever Ron gets whiny about Harry’s date, and it’s hilarious every time. Hermione doesn’t get it and Ron won’t allow Harry to explain the context, so she just rolls her eyes, calls them idiots and goes to hang out with Ginny and Luna who are, according to Hermione, actually saner than them.

Considering the fact that Harry has done many stupid, insane things over the years—and Ron has done several with him—Hermione’s assessment of their sanity levels is accurate. He doesn’t take it personally but he does make sure to reference the Traumatising Nightmare more when it’s just Ron and himself.[12]

Harry knows he still has to deal with the backlash that he knows is coming from certain quarters for his choice in date for the Ball, but he has other things to worry about like the Second Task. Figuring out the clue from the egg is more pressing a thing than potential political mechanisations. Harry is, at his core, more of a tactician and fighter than he is a politician but that’s what he has Ron and Hermione for. Between the two of them, Harry knows he doesn’t have to worry so much about some backhanded scheme against him because they’re both very good at reading people (Ron) or out-thinking them (Hermione).[13]

By the middle of January, Harry has no choice but to head to the Prefects bathroom with the golden egg and toss it into the bath. He joins it without much preamble, though he does notice the mermaid in the stain-glass looking at him and deliberately casts a temporary blinding charm on it; much the mermaid’s disgust. There’s little to do beyond open the egg and, thanks to Hermione’s researching, Uncle ‘Zira and Aunt Crowley’s advice, and Cedric’s friendly sharing of the password for the Prefects bathroom, Harry dunks the egg under the water and then joins it beneath the surface.

> _Come seek us where our voices sound,_
> 
> _We cannot sing above the ground,_
> 
> _And while you're searching ponder this;_
> 
> _We've taken what you'll sorely miss,_
> 
> _An hour long you'll have to look,_
> 
> _And to recover what we took,_
> 
> _But past an hour, the prospect's black,_
> 
> _Too late, it's gone, it won't come back._

The clue makes no sense to Harry initially because, _why would it?_ He doesn’t know much beyond the fact that the Second Task has got to take place on Hogwarts grounds and needs water so it’s got to be the Black Lake. The more he thinks about it, the more sense the clue makes. Black Lake. Possibly merfolk. Something he cares about taken. An hour to look.

Harry reports the clues contents to Hermione, Ron, Aunt Crowley and Uncle ‘Zira when he gets back from the Prefects bathroom to his Aunt and Uncle’s quarters. Between the five of them, a set regime for training is established with Hermione gleefully agreeing to scour the library for spells most effective in water. Ron volunteers to be Harry’s training partner and his Aunt and Uncle both offer advice and tips to them both on how to duel more effectively.[14]

It makes Harry feel more positively about the Second Task and the possibility that he’ll come through the Tournament with minimal injuries. At least, it does until he’s stood at the shore of the Black Lake and realises he didn’t think to practice swimming in the Black Lake before the day of the Second Task.

A bit of an oversight that.

* * *

* * *

[1]The difference between those designations is, just to inform you, reader, rather significant.

[2]Incidentally, Crowley _would_ be correct. Although, Aziraphale has to hide his Fear of Gabriel and Heaven as well as his exasperation at the Archangel. The one time Crowley asked after Aziraphale’s opinion of the Archangels when they were _incredibly drunk_ , the Principality had imparted upon the demon that he considered Archangels to be “up their own… well, _arses_ really. I mean… She made them first, I know. But that doesn’t make them Special, does it?” Of course, it rather _does_ but Crowley has always considered herself to be rather lacking in the Archangel department, and thus considers herself Special Only By Her Own Hard Work. Which, truthfully, is _why_ Crowley is so Special. But don’t tell Crowley that. She has an issue with accepting compliments. It’s a work-in-progress.

[3]Later on, by about ten years, Crowley manages to perfect a method of using television static to make already superstitious individuals go out of their way to fulfil absolutely absurd ‘demands’ of the TV Overlords. He—for he is a he, again, then—doesn’t earn a commendation for the TV Overlords part, so much as for the fact that the ‘demands’ he has humans fulfilling assist Hell in the Long-Run. 

[4]When Crowley mentions Aziraphale was being _rude_ to Harry during this conversation, she will abruptly find herself perched on the Astronomy Tower rather than the sofa she has claimed in their chambers. Then, when she returns to their chambers, she’ll find the door warded with Angelic script that will keep her out for the rest of the night. It will transpire, then, that Aziraphale is a little _tetchy_ about being called rude, sometimes. Naturally, Crowley will do her upmost to call him rude when the angel least expects it.

[5]Crowley doesn’t often talk about physics but it’s a topic she actually rather Enjoys Discussing. This, of course, means she rarely talks about it and instead takes to writing absolutely mind-boggling physics papers that have human physicists almost crying in frustration. She claims a couple of physicists every few decades for Hell just with the papers she writes. Some, however, she claims for Heaven by virtue of The Arrangement; not that Aziraphale realises of course, since he thinks Crowley just shares the sources with the human physicists rather than being the _source material itself._ In the years following the Apoca-not, Crowley will come to admit this love of physics to Aziraphale and then promptly regret it when the angel buries the demon in an _endless_ amount of physics books and papers; demanding, all the while, to tell “me which ones you wrote, Crowley! Oh, I swear, if you wrote this one [pointing at the most deranged paper of the lot] I will absolutely not talk to you for a century, again!”. Crowley will love every second of this rampaging angel.

[6] April 14th is a difficult day for Aziraphale. The night is often full of him being more restless than usual when anniversaries crop up. But April 14th is different. For many reasons. Aziraphale still feels that he failed in his angelic duty that night. Or, he felt he had. Heaven’s orders had been to save whoever he could but that it wasn’t Absolutely Necessary to intervene with a significant miracle. The wording of the missive had inferred that using a significant miracle would have Aziraphale reprimanded again. He’ll never forget the cold of it. Never. Even as he lives with over one-thousand-five-hundred deaths on his conscience; always will he remember that cold. In his quieter moments, Aziraphale occasionally entertains the possibility of God feeling similarly when the number of deaths that She has had a hand in causing is brought up in discussion. Perhaps she does. He doesn’t know. But She does. She knows. She Knows.

[7]He absolutely _does_.

[8] The fact that he’s not ticklish is, according to Katie, weirder than his ability to talk to snakes.

[9] Dinner and lunch can be considered synonymous with each other even though they can also be considered different meals entirely. However, when it comes to Christmas dinner, the rules differ somewhat as you can have Christmas ‘dinner’ at lunch time instead of, say for example, five o’clock in the afternoon.

[10] Although Hermione tries her best, Harry doesn’t part with _Elemental Magic_ for six months. It drives her to distraction but the fact that he refuses to hand it over until he’s read it _thoroughly_ makes a significant difference later in life. Of course, Hermione’s increasingly disturbing threats of physical harm to Harry the longer he holds on to the book aren’t quite so nice. Aunt Crowley does praise her for creativity even as Harry hides behind her one evening when he’s visiting his Aunt and Uncle with his friends.

[11] This is a much politer way of conveying the words of Harry’s date for the Ball. These words also lack the inherent snootiness that accompanied the original dialogue. This is a good thing. Harry has never been good at remembering a conversation word-for-word; that’s too much effort.

[12] This continues on for several years because, as Harry admits, he’s a great friend and, like all great friends, enjoys terrorising his best friend. Ron doesn’t appreciate it in the slightest and spends the following years alternating between; stuffing his fingers in his ears and saying “I can’t hear you” very loudly, and; throwing hexes at Harry to Just Make Him Stop. It’s entertaining for others even if it’s not so great for Ron. Harry isn’t the slightest bit sorry, either.

[13] Ron firmly argues that people are like chess and if you can figure out what kind of chess piece a person is, then you can figure out how to handle them. Hermione dislikes this analogy because she doesn’t believe people can be so easily categorised. Ron calls her the Queen and points out that Hermione’s intelligence makes her one of the deadliest pieces on the board. Harry is witness to the delightful event of Hermione being actually speechless because _Ron isn’t wrong_. It makes her even more annoyed about his chessboard analogy. Harry just decides to not play chess with Ron ever again.

[14] Crowley and Aziraphale both forget that their tips on duelling etiquette tend to apply more readily to duelling with _swords_ not wands. It takes them an embarrassingly long time to realise that and shift their advice accordingly. Harry gets a lucky shot with a tickling charm in during one duel when Crowley shouts at Ron to _poke his eye out!_ The result of Ron looking at Crowley in surprised confusion is compounded by the tickling charm making him laugh hysterically for a full minute during which Harry ends up laughing himself silly too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I did that. I did. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are appreciated, as always. I'd love to respond to all the comments but you all comment so much and I just flail and am overwhelmed. You're all amazing and I adore you all for being so wonderful and commenting!!

**Author's Note:**

> Crowley wants all the genders and imma give 'em all of them!
> 
> Comment and kudos are appreciated and sustain me :)


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